


Vice Collar (With Revisions)

by pucktheplayer



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, BDSM, Bondage, F/M, M/M, Master/Slave, Multi, Past Underage, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slash, Slave Trade, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 00:59:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 33
Words: 264,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7869082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pucktheplayer/pseuds/pucktheplayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Agent Peter Burke of the Vice Collar division agreed to acquire the contract of slave-turned-conman Neal Caffrey, he really only wanted him for his insider knowledge on the world of illegal slave trade. Neal, however, is determined to give the agent more bang for his buck to ensure that he'll never have to play prison slave again, eventually kindling a fire between them they didn't know existed.</p>
<p>**Currently updating monthly. Next Update: By August 1st, 2017**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Slipping the Leash

**Author's Note:**

> This story was published unfinished to Livejournal and Fanfiction.net between September 2012 and January 2015. I have reposted those chapters here, and I am working on revising them for better grammar, structure, and plot flow as I continue the story.
> 
> If a chapter has been revised, there will be a note at the top stating when it was revised and the date of the revision, along with a link to the original version.
> 
> UPDATE SCHEDULE: I am now posting new chapters on a monthly basis. The last update was July, 2017 (technically June 26th). The next chapter will be posted by August 1st, 2017 (or earlier).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Neal escapes prison, the FBI loses the Dutchman, and Peter makes a deal with Neal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was revised for better grammar, plot, and flow on July 1, 2017.   
> The original was published on Livejournal and fanfiction.net on September 27, 2012.

His Mistress was his everything. When she left, he was nothing.

Preparing for his escape took Neal over a month of careful planning. Had slaves not been seen somewhere between cockroaches and slugs on the evolutionary scale, it would have taken even longer.The reason they were above snails? They didn’t melt when sprinkled with salt.

Prison slaves were a commodity. Toilet paper, mouthwash, orange scrubs, and cheap ass: the necessities of life behind bars. According to the smug warden who ruled over this hole, prison slaves reduced inmate-on-inmate rape by over 75%. The disturbingly well trained slave boy within Neal honestly thought it was good to be needed. The equally competent conman, however, tended to paint the words with a heavy coat of sarcasm.

Ah, the joys of being a slave since birth and a certifiable genius, too.

Neal took a deep breath and stared into the mirror. An almost unrecognizable slave stared back at him, and he shivered. Was he really going to do this? If he was caught, life would become hell. Not that it was exactly heaven now.

The truth was, playing the good slave who serviced inmates on a nice, neat rotating schedule was a lot more bearable back when he’d still had the shining light of Mistress at the end of the four year bitch tunnel. But now that she was gone, he couldn’t stand it anymore.

Four years ago when the Feds first showed up and made claim to Neal’s contract for the next four years—the usual sentence for a first time offender that also happened to be a slave—he’d expected his mistress to abandon him instantly. What did he have left to offer her? Instead she’d simply hugged him, kissed him on the top of his head, and promised to visit him every week until he was hers again. Which was why he’d been so confused when, with only months left on his criminal contract, she’d appeared for her usual visit with the news that his private contract had been sold and that he would be put up for public auction upon release.

Neal looked down at the razor in his hands, silently contemplating whether he should use it on his beard or whether it might be better suited on his wrists. That was definitely a brighter option than suffering one more day of the perverted shit Fat Ronny liked to do to Neal with his toothbrush.

Neal had been trained for sex (or “pleasure,” as they called it uptown) since he was a child, but there was a big difference between having your body served up like a fine wine and being forced into filthy cells twice a week to be impaled by inmates with untamed pubic hair and terrible body odor.

“Slave! Why are you roaming outside your cage block?” Neal jumped half a foot, stuffing his hard-earned PSS uniform into the sink bowl as he turned around. He couldn’t lose it. Six sloppy blow jobs had been the price for Joey Hamilton to filch the clothes off the Public Service Slave who delivered toilet paper and toothpaste to the prison. The oversized thug of an inmate had probably left the poor kid tied up somewhere in the guts of this shit hole, but Neal didn’t have time to feel sorry for his fellow slave. He had to see his mistress.

“Sir, please, I—“ He cut off abruptly as he came face to face with Frank, a janitorial slave who was brought in once a week to clean the toilets. At over forty years old, Frank was ancient for a slave. If it came down to it, Neal could probably take him. Fighting wasn’t really Neal’s style, but unlike freemen, a good slave like Frank couldn’t be bribed.

Neal had been a good slave once, a long, long time ago.

“I… I have things to do outside my cage block,” Neal managed to stutter, wincing at his own pathetic lie. He was a conman, for God’s sake!

“Stupid things, it looks like,” the slave shot back, eyes flickering over the assortment of items Neal had gathered. Frank’s age worn face twisted with disapproval, then softened slightly. His voice, though, was as hard as ever. “When I finish my rounds, I _will_ be reporting you to the masters for being out of bounds.”

Neal ducked his head in gratitude, the knot easing in his gut. Any freeman would have taken the statement as a threat, but Neal saw it for the warning it was. Frank had no choice but to report him. Saying so out loud was a warning that the guards would be looking for him soon, but Neal knew that his fellow slave would take his time with his rounds today, even though inefficient work would certainly lead to punishment by his masters at the cleaning company.

Frank pushed his cart of bleach and buckets out the door. “I can’t clean here with you in my way, slave. I’ll come back after I finish D block. You’d better be out of my way by then.”

“Yes, Frank,” Neal replied, guilt welling up in his chest as the slave disappeared out the door. He’d basically just signed off on Frank’s order of euthanasia by making him a part of this escape.

If Neal were truly a good person, he would return to his cageblock and forget this whole thing. But he wasn’t actually a person at all, was he? He was a slave, and he needed to return to the mistress of his soul.

Neal turned back to the mirror, working as quickly as he could until his face was once more the smooth picture of beauty that kept his Trader’s Suggested Retail Price so high. Though with “prison slave” now on his pedigree, he wasn’t sure what it would be. Ten dollars? That was what he felt like he was worth when inmates who could pass as grizzly bears climbed aboard him like he was a yacht.

Quickly stripping off his traffic cone orange boxers, Neal used dirty water from the toilet to slick back his mass of curls into something more manageable before pulling on the PSS uniform.

Neal squared his shoulders and grabbed the keycard he’d re-written using a tape player loaned to him in exchange for a three hour fuck. The bathroom door loomed before him, looking as though it might grow teeth and rip him to pieces the moment he stepped out.

This was it. If he left now, the choice was truly made. The guards could, and likely would, kill him on sight if they recognized him. He was only a slave, after all—it wasn’t like offing an actual inmate.

It was time to be brave.

“Mistress, Mistress, Mistress.” Neal chanted her name under his breath as he stepped into the corridor, forcing himself to saunter down the hall like he owned it. Pulling a con was all about confidence. Hiding your terror was par for the course.

As he passed through the inmate work area, Neal caught Fat Ronny giving him a long look from behind some sort of machinery. Time seemed to freeze as he stared back at the obese bastard. He couldn’t get caught now. Not this close. Please, please, please…

Ronny smirked, giving Neal a surreptitious thumbs up before ducking his head back down to continue his work.

For the first time since his arrival, Neal had the urge to hug Ronny. For this he’d gladly forgive the man every angry thrust of the toothbrush and slap of the face.

At the security gates, Neal slid the keycard through, smiling as the door popped open with a buzz. He held his breath as the alarm in the guard box began to flash and beep, the electronic registration chip embedded in his neck setting off the alarm and alerting the dozing guard that a slave had stepped through.

The guard blinked lazily at him and, upon seeing his PSS uniform, waved him through, eyelids drooping back down.

A rush of adrenaline hit Neal as he slid the card through the final lock, He was overcome by the realization that he was one step away from _real_ slavery, not this farce of a government system that locked good stock like him up with slaves who could count their IQ on their fingers and toes. A single step and he would once again be slave Neal Caffrey, property of Mistress Kate Moreau.

The gate opened with a buzz, and Neal wanted nothing more than to run across the parking lot, whooping for joy. Since that would be more than a little conspicuous, he suppressed the urge, though he did allow himself a huge grin. He set to work hot wiring an old van—anything made before 1998 was a breeze—and a few minutes later he was off, curls whipping in the wind as he slipped a cassette tape into the player, grinning broadly at the irony of the song blasting from the speakers.

_“Hold on, I’m comin’!”_

 

o o o

 

Agent Peter Burke scowled, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched the safecracker turn the knob. Every move was painfully slow, and he really wanted to shout at someone. This was taking forever.

As badly as he wanted to catch the Dutchman, El would kill him if he missed dinner tonight. Some of her friends from her art gallery days had purchased a new baby boy to be a playmate for their seven month old son, and they were holding a party to celebrate the delivery of the slave from whatever warehouse he’d come from. El had made it very clear that his attendance was required.

After spending all day working in the Vice Collar division, the last thing Peter wanted was to hang out with a bunch of artsy fartsy types who believed in buying lifetime contracts on slaves so they could serve in their “forever homes.” Not that the idea wasn’t cute—very Humane Society meets open adoption—but Peter spent all day dealing with the scum of the slave trade, and he preferred to leave anything related to slavery at the office.

Black market slave traders had dirty hands, and he’d seen things that would make your average slavemaster weep. It was his job to track down slave owners who used their slaves to commit crimes (a whole new kind of patsy), on top of keeping the illegal slave market at bay, something easier said than done. And this wasn’t even counting all the time he spent working with White Collar to check up on big slave corporations like SlaveMart and Adler Industries. It was hard to think about happy endings in forever homes when you spent your days watching slaves take bullets—or worse—for their masters.

Just last week, Vice Collar had raided the house of a slave trader and found a dozen kids with faked registration chips stolen from God knows where and implanted on the fly, as attested to by the scars on the backs of their necks. All of them were well trained in sex work, and not a one of them was the legal age of twelve.

A real win, that one. Selling child slaves for sex wasn’t uncommon, but having the evidence to bust a trader was a rare triumph. Slaves’ testimonies weren’t good in court, but most slaves wouldn’t speak to them even if they had been. Peter could beg and bribe, but their lips were sealed. Whether it was loyalty, training, or simply the fear that their “rebel act” against their masters might get back to the big corporations, Peter wasn’t sure. All he knew is that they would rather face criminal contracts than talk.

Thank God they’d won that case, though. Peter would never be able to bleach the image of a dozen kids stripped naked and collared, watching the raid in total silence with heads lowered and hands clasped politely behind their backs as bullets flew. From their reluctance to break position even to save their own lives, Peter guessed they’d been in training at least two years. Considering that one of them wasn’t a day over six, it was pretty stomach turning.

“Okay, the first number is… 3.”

Peter sighed, glancing at his watch. He needed to get out of here if he wanted to make it to dinner, but, dammit, he was so close to the Dutchman that he could almost smell him.

“And a 2…”

There was an excited murmur, fifty Harvard grads shuffling in their wingtips, practically vibrating with excitement. Peter wasn’t ready to count his chickens before they hatched, but he was excited, too. The Dutchman was a ghost, but if they could catch him, they would be able to take down over a dozen slave traders suspected of dealing with him, too.

“Okay, the last number is…”

Peter took a deep breath and tugged nervously at the end of his tie. They were so close…

“It’s a 4! The code is 3-2-4!”

Cheering broke out amongst the agents, and someone slapped Peter on the back, but he just frowned, mind spinning. He should be thrilled, but something was wrong. What was wrong? 3-2-4, 3-2-4… The code was 3-2-4.

Oh, shit!

“Don’t open it!” Peter shouted, waving his arms like a madman. “Don’t open—“ His words were cut off by a loud blast, followed by a huge cloud of dust raining down on them. “Dammit!” Peter shouted, throwing his cellphone on the ground just to make himself feel better. “Dammit, people! I said not to open it! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Maybe it was a little harsh considering that they were all still coughing and trying to make each other out through the dust, but Peter was pissed. Really pissed. He was going to be late because of a fucking setup! El would have his balls because of a goddamn setup!

“B-Boss,” Jones managed to croak, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “H-h—“ He coughed loudly. “How did you know it was gonna blow?”

“3-2-4,” Peter said. “The combination was 3-2-4.” Everyone stared at him, and he let out a sigh. “Look at your phones. 3-2-4. What does it spell?”

“FBI,” Jones said after a moment of fumbling with his cell. He sounded pissed. Good. He should be pissed. “It was a setup.”

“Yeah,” Peter said in a dry voice, wondering idly if he could take Jones home and let El rip _his_ balls off. “It was a setup. Dammit! After all that time, we’re this close to the Dutchman, and BOOM!” He tossed his hands into the air to emphasize his point, not that it needed emphasizing with the air around them still shimmering with dust.

Peter frowned, catching a glimpse of something on his jacket. He grabbed it between two fingers, raising it up to get a better look. I was definitely plastic, though it was too small for him to tell what kind.

“Does anybody know what this is?” he questioned, holding up the sliver. The group stared at him blankly, and he rolled his eyes. “God, how many of you went to Harvard?” Hands started to rise, making Peter grit his teeth. “Don’t raise your hands! Someone get this to the lab and figure out what the hell it is. Jones—“

His next directive was cut off as the new girl—Diana?—pushed her way to the front of the group, actually shoving Jones aside.

“Boss,” she said in a low voice, “I need to talk to you.”

Peter sighed, gesturing to the mess around them. “Now is really not a good time—“

“Boss,” she cut in again, obviously not caring too much about things like rank and seniority. “Neal Caffrey’s escaped.”

The words took a moment to process. Neal Caffrey… had escaped? From a goddamn government contract after almost four full years of playing the good slave? She _had_ to be kidding him. “Please tell me this is a joke,” he said, knowing full well that it wasn’t.

She shook her head, mouth quirking up at the look on his face. “Sorry, Boss.”

 

o o o

 

“This is where they stuck him?” Peter questioned, eyeing the prison with disdain.

The warden nodded, pushing his glasses up his pointy nose as he flipped through some paperwork. “Yes. It was determined that a prison setting would be the most compatible placement. His criminal contract could be maintained while making full use of his registration’s suggested product usage.

“What the hell does that even mean?” Peter muttered, making a face as they stopped outside the main gate, which looked in on the filthy yard beyond. What could Neal possibly be registered for that would be of any use here? Cooking, maybe? Or janitorial service?

Peter had chased the slave under a variety of forged registrations, the suggested products usages ranging from culinary arts to administrative skills to garbage transportation, but he’d never seen Neal’s real papers. His mistress at the time, Kate Moreau, had refused the FBI access. Since there was no evidence whatsoever that Neal’s crimes had any connection to Ms. Moreau, Peter hadn’t been able to get a warrant for her property. Neal was apparently a criminal on his own orders, a real rarity. That sort of thing was usually beat out of slaves during training.

It was amazing how much you could know about someone without knowing anything at all. Before they’d had a clue who Neal was, much less _what_ he was, they’d nicknamed him James Bondage, a play off the fact that he was always stealing expensive bondage equipment from wealthy collectors or creating forgeries of famous slave art to sell to museums and auction houses.

Peter supposed it was meant as a joke on them, but it backfired in the end. Neal’s intense focus on slavery was what planted the idea that their conman might be a slave in Peter’s mind. The profilers had laughed at him, claiming he was out of his mind and saying that no slave was daring enough to pull off such a stunt. Obviously they’d never met Neal. The boy was cheeky as hell. Not to mention the best conman Peter had ever seen, slave or not.

It was only after realizing James Bondage was actually James _in_ Bondage that Neal’s biggest con came to light. Forget selling yourself in an interview, Neal Caffrey was selling himself for real.

Rewiring his registration chip and using his artistic skills to forge the paper documents, Neal would sell a very expensive version of himself to some unsuspecting billionaire, send the payment to an offshore account, and then take off back to his mistress, leaving no trace that he’d ever existed. He managed to sell himself every time, no matter how high the price.

Those roguish good looks _were_ pretty irresistible. Peter wasn’t attracted to men, but there was something about Caffrey that made a guy want to smile, or possibly fumble with the crotch of his pants. In a totally heterosexual way, of course.

“So tell me again what happened?” Peter said, glancing at the warden.

The man ran a shaky hand over his bald scalp as they were buzzed through the gates. “It went down this morning. The slave known as Neal woke up, shaved off its beard, put on a Public Service Slave uniform, and used a keycard reprogrammed with a cassette player to override the security gate.”

Seriously? Neal walked out the front door? And nobody _noticed_? Remind him not to send any serial killers to this place.

“How did he get a PSS uniform?”

The man’s pudgy cheeks went red. “Uh, we found the PSS tied up naked in one of the storage closets this morning.” He licked his lips nervously.

Tying up innocent slaves and stealing their clothes didn’t really seem like a Caffrey thing to do, but Peter supposed it was better than what some people would have done to keep a slave quiet.

“Don’t worry,” the warden added quickly. “We took care of it, and the janitorial slave, too. Disposal will pick them up tomorrow.”

Peter wasn’t sure what that meant, but right then he didn’t care. “You said Neal shaved his beard. Neal Caffrey doesn’t have a beard.”

Or body hair in general, like most upscale slaves. And pleasure slaves. Those pitiful kids flashed through his mind again.

The warden’s brow furrowed. “From what I can see on the security tapes, he’s been growing it for awhile. About a month?”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up at that. “A month, huh? What happened a month ago? Anything unusual?”

“Hm…” The man chewed his lip nervously. He _should_ be nervous, having let a criminal waltz out right under his nose. “Um, I believe he had a visitor. His mistress? She came every week, though, so it wasn’t unusual.” He paused, frowning. “Except that she hasn’t been around much since then. Maybe at all. I always remember her when she comes. She’s very beautiful.” He smiled, and not in a nice way. “Very, very beautiful. Especially her legs. And her hips. And her breasts.”

Peter grimaced. Not only was this guy incompetent, he was a pervert, too. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. She’s an attractive lady. How about you show me those tapes?”

 

o o o

 

Neal stared down at the bottle, not sure whether he wanted to clutch it to his chest or smash it into a thousand pieces.

She was gone, really gone. Mistress had left him. He wasn’t hers anymore.

A tear trickled down his cheek, and Neal didn’t bother to wipe it away.

It was all over now. He would go back to that horrible place for at least another four years, that is if the government didn’t decide to turn him into a Public Service Announcement and nail him to the wall in a training facility for all the good slaves to see. God knew euthanasia was considered too kind a death for a rebel like him.Not that Neal was actually a rebel in way, shape, or form. There was no one in the world he worshipped more than Mistress, and everything he’d ever done had been for her.

Mistress had deserved to have everything she wanted. She’d deserved to wear diamonds and drive fancy cars and drink the wine the _really_ came in this old bottle. It had been his duty to provide all of that for her, which is why he’d committed all those crimes. Sure, he’d done it without her permission, but only to keep her safe. That way, if he was caught, not a single drop of the blame splattered on her. It had worked, too.

Neal gripped the old wine bottle even tighter. Let them call him a rebel. Neal knew in his heart that he was the best of slaves.

“Hey, kid.”

Neal started at the voice, eyes going wide as he craned his neck to look at the man standing behind him. He knew they’d catch him, but he hadn’t expected it to be this fast. A poor assumption when someone like Special Agent Peter Burke was involved.

As a youth, Neal had been trained to submit to all freemen, but Agent Burke was the sort of man that made him want to get down on his knees and beg. It went beyond the beefy hands and big shoulders to the confidence within. The way he held himself, the way he walked, the way he spoke… the man radiated power. Agent Burke was the essence of masterful, and it made Neal feel as vulnerable as it did safe. Even more so now that the agent had exercised his power and put Neal in his place.

Suave, intelligent conman Neal Caffrey knew that the feeling was only a gut reaction born of his years of training. He knew as well as anyone that men willing to hurt you were not a safe haven simply because they protected you from everyone else. But the brainwashing had started young, and it took an almost painful amount of effort for Neal to push past that emotional barrier when near a man like Agent Burke.The fact that the man’s mere presence transformed Neal into a groveling boy-slave frustrated and embarrassed him, which was why he did his best to be as cocky around the man as possible, despite the fact that it scared the shit out of him.

In the end, it was no surprise Agent Burke was the one who found him. The man had chased Neal relentlessly for over three years, like a cat playing with a mouse, before showing his claws and taking home his prize. Agent Burke was the one behind Neal’s prison slave contract, Neal was certain of that. Criminal contracts came in hundreds of shapes and sizes—cleaning sewage pipes, donating non-essential organs, working at radiation plants—but very few involved sexual service. Fucklings were too cheap and plentiful for anyone to need a criminal slave for _that._

No, Agent Burke had definitely arranged the prison slave contract for Neal in order to remind the slave that he was the weaker male by cutting Neal off from everything he loved and putting him down in the most degrading way possible, all without lifting a finger.

Neal didn’t know whether to hate the man or admire him. A tendency to appreciate those best at hurting you was one of the many twisted side effects of training. But how could you not appreciate Agent Burke? He was so masterful and intelligent and handsome. If he hadn’t sentenced Neal to four years of shower block gangbangs, even the conman inside of him might have found the man attractive.

“Hello, Agent Burke,” Neal said, bowing his head politely. He wasn’t feeling up to the playful banter he usually used to mask his fear of this man.

“Hello, Neal,” the agent replied dryly. “Funny meeting you here.”

“Hilarious,” Neal agreed, lifting his eyes from the man’s shoes to his face. “Weren’t you wearing that suit the last time you caught me, sir?” He pasted a jaunty smile on his face that he didn’t feel at all. Might as well slip back into his old routine as the sassy slave. Maybe today would be the day Agent Burke got sick of it and snapped his neck. At least then he wouldn’t feel this terrible pain in his heart anymore.

“Hey now!” Agent Burke said, pretending to be offended as he tugged at his lapels. “The classics never go out of style!”

Neal gave a soft snort and rolled his eyes, not giving a damn that it was beyond even his usual level of careless disrespect.

“What’s with the bottle?”

Neal looked up at the agent again, surprised by the question. Or, to be more precise, surprised that Agent Burke gave a shit. Sure, it was illegal for slaves to consume alcohol, but he seriously doubted the FBI gave a damn if he’d sipped some vino in his days.

“It belonged to Mistress, sir,” Neal said, stroking the bottle cradled against his chest. “When my master at the time left my contract to her, she couldn’t afford anything like this.” He turned the bottle, revealing the expensive label. “So she would buy cheap box wine, I’d pour it into this bottle to serve her, and we would both pretend it was fine wine.” Neal sighed. “It was a promise of what Mistress would have someday, a promise of a future where I would serve her the wine she deserved.”

“And what does it mean now?” Agent Burke asked, voice unreadable.

Neal set the bottle on the floor, pushing it almost violently away from him. “It means goodbye, sir.”

The silence stretched between them for a moment then the agent spoke, his voice matter of fact. “You know you’re going to get another four year criminal contract for this, and that’s if you’re lucky.”

“I don’t care,” Neal snapped. He was struck by a sudden urge to hurl that damn bottle across the room. “Sir,” he added belatedly as he tried to diffuse the harshness of his words. He turned his head away so that he didn’t have to look at Agent Burke. If the man was taking pleasure in Neal’s pain, he didn’t want to see it. “It was worth it to try and find Mistress.”

The words didn’t ring completely true, and slivers of doubt rose up in Neal’s mind. A slave had no right to decide who owned it. Who did he think he was, questioning his mistress’ judgement and taking off like a lovesick fool?

Neal rubbed at his eyes, wiping away the unshed tears. He didn’t cry often. It was hard to cry anymore, after all of the painful and degrading acts of service he’d performed throughout his life. But the idea that his escape hadn’t been worth it was more painful than any whip. If it wasn’t worth it, then Neal had condemned himself to another four years of pain and humiliation so intense it gave his training days a run for their money—and he’d done it for absolutely nothing.

No! He wouldn’t allow himself to think like that. He loved Mistress, and she loved him. She’d told him so… but she’d also told him she would never sell him, and that had turned out to be nothing more than bedroom talk.

A tear managed to escape, and Neal rubbed it off with his shoulder, hoping Agent Burke didn’t notice.

“Okay, come on, kid,” Agent Burke said, gesturing for Neal to stand.

Neal obeyed like a good slave, placing his hands behind his back in their usual position, right hand clasping the left wrist, and dropped his head. Time to go back to hell.

Agent Burked reached out, wrapping an arm around Neal’s shoulders in an almost comforting way as he directed him toward the door.

Neal swallowed, the simple motion of walking making his ass ache terribly thanks to the unhealed tears inside of him from the week’s fuckings. Less than twenty-four hours after his escape and he was headed right back to being the bitch in a room full of oversexed bullies.

He hoped Agent Burke had a good time at night jerking off to images of Neal on his knees, face covered in spit and semen and puke as cock after cock plundered his mouth. Not that Neal had any right to be bitter. Fucking was what he did; that wasn’t Agent Burke’s fault. Hence his title of “fuckling.”

Something caught Neal’s eye as they walked past the window, the fading sunlight flickering across a small piece of plastic stuck to Agent Burke’s suit. Neal stopped abruptly, breath catching as his admittedly brilliant mind began to whirl, his blue eyes locked on the plastic. If that was really what it looked like, maybe there was still a way out of this.

It was a simple enough plan. The government held Neal’s contract. Agent Burke worked for the government, therefore Neal’s contract could be held by Agent Burke, who worked in Vice Collar. Neal knew more about the vice surrounding collars than any of the man’s little Harvard bred Feds. With Neal to help him on his cases, Agent Burke’s success rates would go up for sure, and the number of men fucking Neal would go down as well. Maybe. Probably. Hopefully.

It was a win-win situation for everyone, _if_ Neal could somehow prove that he was worth more helping out Vice Collar than sucking off a bunch of felons.

“Sir,” he spoke up, hands a little shaky as he reached out and plucked the plastic strip from Agent Burke’s suit. “What’s it worth to you if I tell you what this is?”

Neal held his breath, almost daring to hope. Vice Collar definitely did not have the info on this newest tech, not a chance. Neal only knew about it because Mozzie had spent his entire last visit babbling on and on about the Canadian conspiracy to wipe out the indigenous population of Alaska. Oh yeah, and also about their advances in the slave trade.

Mozzie might be a total looney, calling himself a “liberationist slave trainer,” but there were days when Neal was really grateful to have come into the man’s possession. He wouldn’t let Neal call him Trainer or Master or even “sir,” but he’d trained—no, _taught_ —Neal to be the perfect con artist.

Agent Burke studied the plastic with a suspicious eye. “You know what it is, Neal?”

Neal licked his lips nervously, knowing he was treading in dangerous waters. By law, he had to tell Agent Burke anything he knew, but that would mean showing his hand before the game even began.

He needed to ease into this, especially since the agent was unlikely to be pleased by Neal’s sudden flash of inspiration. The man had personally chosen to condemn Neal to prison slavery, implying he wanted Neal to _stay_ a prison slave. But surely even a man as masterful as Agent Burke would agree that four years of violent and humiliating sex with strange, perverted men was enough to remind Neal of his place.

“You have to tell me anything you know, boy. It’s your duty as a slave.”

“And I will!” Neal said quickly, flashing his million dollar grin. “I absolutely will, sir! I just…” he swallowed hard, feeling nauseous. Were these words really about to come out of his mouth? “I want one thing in exchange.”

He’d said it. He had actually said it. Neal half expected the skies to rip apart and the wrath of God to rain down upon him, but the world kept turning, there was no lightning to be seen, and all of his bodily organs seemed to be functioning normally.

“You’re a slave,” Agent Burke replied, leaning back and crossing his arms as he studied Neal. “And a criminal. I don’t have to give you anything. In fact, I could just tie you to that pillar over there and whip the skin off your back with my belt until you cough up what I need to know, couldn’t I?” His tone was teasing, and he looked more amused than anything else, but the words still made Neal’s stomach churn.

It would be okay. Even if Agent Burke did strap him down and beat him, a belt wasn’t the worst he’d had. It wasn’t even in the vicinity.

“Trust me,” Neal said as evenly as he could manage. “I am very aware of your power here, _sir_.” He put extra emphasis on the word, forcing himself not to flinch when the man rolled his eyes. “I’m simply asking. One little favor to help you out.”

The agent sighed, and for a second Neal thought the agent was going to shoot him, despite showing no signs of actually being riled up. But the gun remained at his side, and Neal relaxed. Minutely.

“What do you want, Caffrey?” Agent Burke asked as he rubbed his eyes, sounding like he was ready to go home.

It took a moment for Neal to process that the agent was talking to him. Slaves were never called by their last names. Doing so implied certain boundaries and personal space that no slave was granted. “I want you to visit me in prison in one week. That’s all I want, sir. One little visit, Mas—I mean, _sir_. Just say you’ll come, and I will tell you right now what this is.” Neal held up the delicate piece of plastic.

Agent Burke stared at him for another long moment, and Neal’s heart sped up. Finally the man let out yet another sigh, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. “A visit, in one week. That’s what you want?”

Neal nodded rapidly. One week should give him time to figure out the best way to reel Agent Burke into his plan. He’d also have time to consider what a man like this would want in a slave and mold himself into the perfect product. God knew he had plenty of experience in that.

Though Neal wasn’t entirely sure that he _wanted_ to know what a man who happily sent slaves off to be savagely penetrated as a punishment for forging registration documents would ask of his own personal slaves.

He shoved the thought away. Even if Agent Burke was as kinky as they came, it couldn’t be as bad as having at least thirty men a week fucking him up the ass. Not unless the man was using an unhealthy amount of Viagra.

“Okay, fine, I’ll come see you in a week.” The agent sounded exasperated. “Now tell me. “What is that?” He pointed to the plastic.

Neal couldn’t quite hide his self-satisfied smirk. “It’s the bio-plastic covering for the new Canadian slave registration implant.”


	2. Call Me Master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter gets stuck in a prison conjugal room, Neal sells his sexy self, and Peter takes home a slave.

Though it wasn’t the sort of thing he’d ever admit, on any other day Peter might have been pleased to talk to Neal Caffrey again, to catch up with his old adversary, but today he was exhausted and this was the last place on earth he wanted to be.

Once they’d confirmed that the plastic was, in fact, from Canada’s much touted new implant, Peter’s workload had gone into overdrive. He had hardly left the office in the past ten days as they tried to figure out what a forger in Manhattan was doing with classified tech from Ontario.

“Smaller, safer, and stricter,” is what the Canadians were calling the device, claiming it was unhackable. Bullshit. Any electronic device could be hacked. But the question wasn’t whether the implants were really the most secure thing since Boy Scouts invented knots, it was what the hell the Dutchman was doing with them.

Having finally escaped the hullaballoo at the office for a few hours, Peter should really be headed home to his wife, not slinking around a maximum security prison visiting a criminal slave. But Peter prided himself on being a man of his word, and he had promised Neal he would come.

Besides, if the boy could recognize the new implant from a sliver of plastic, no telling what else he knew. One thing was for certain: his visit had absolutely nothing at all to do with the way Neal’s huffy pretensions and charming grins tended to make Peter feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Not at all. Not even a little bit. Total professionalism here.

Yeah, and unicorns shit rainbows in pots of gold.

Damn it, El was right when she’d accused Peter of being obsessed with the cheeky thief. He made a note to make his wife promise she’d instigate an intervention the next time he tried to dedicate an entire room of their house to catching one man. Especially if that man was as irritatingly charming as Caffrey. The kid could sell slaves to liberationists.

Too bad Neal hadn’t been born a free man. He probably would have made a fortune swindling people in perfectly legal ways. All he needed was a shark skin suit and he could set himself up in Vegas, running casinos and driving Lamborghinis with fuzzy dice on the mirrors.

Peter stepped up to the security office, frowning at the guard slumped down in his chair, head hanging back with loud snores coming from his open mouth. “Hey,” he said, pounding on the bullet proof glass. “I’m here to visit a slave. Neal Caffrey?”

The decidedly overweight man jumped, almost falling out of the chair, then rubbed the sleep from his eyes. No wonder Neal had been able to prance out of this shit hole. 

“Huh?” he said, staring blearily up at Peter, a bit of spittle hanging off his fuzzy chin. 

“Neal Caffrey,” Peter snapped. “A slave, provisional property of the Department of Justice.” He flashed his badge. “I’m Special Agent Peter Burke, FBI. I called ahead.”

The guard’s face cleared up, though it didn’t make him look any less dimwitted, and he nodded. “Oh, yeah, you’re the Fed here to see the pretty one.” The man frowned and began shuffling through the mess of papers completely covering his desk. “Darn, it says here you was coming at eight… Pretty is still working, his shift ain’t over ’til seven, but I can pull him out early for you.” He raised a bushy eyebrow. “How long you gonna need him for?”

Peter shrugged, trying to hide his disgust at the state of this place. “I don’t know, but it shouldn’t be long. I have better things to do. So hurry up and get him.”

“You got better things to do than Pretty?” The guard chuckled. “Your wife must be damn good!”

“What the hell are you babbling about?” Peter snapped, his disgust morphing into anger. Who the hell did this fool think he was, talking about El like that? “Actually, I don’t want to know. Just shut up and get Caffrey so I can get this over and done with, okay?”

The guard held up his hands defensively. “Hey, don’t have a heart attack, man. I was just kidding.” He pulled the walkie talkie off his belt and held down the button. “We got a visitor here for the slave called Neal Capperikly. Caddrey. Cattney. Oh, hell, the one with the lady face. Pull him out of Entertainment and get his ass down to the private room in A Block, pronto.”

A few seconds later a crackling voice came over the com. “Pretty’s busy. Can it wait ten, maybe fifteen minutes?”

“Negative,” the guard replied, eyeing Peter. “This guy wants him now. Tell whoever has him that the slave’s shift is over and he needs to finish up ASAP.”

o o o

Neal took a slow, deep breath, trying to center himself and keep his mind clear. It wasn’t easy—he’d been on this fucking bed for literally ten days now, his only respite being the three trips to the toilet they allowed him per twenty-four hour period.

He had know that his master, the warden, would punish Neal for embarrassing him, but foolishly he hadn’t expected it to be quite this bad. Instead of alternating between the Personal Entertainment Room, visiting cells, and serving in the showers, Neal had been regulated full time to the fuck room, as Entertainment was called in the common vernacular.

There were no assignments worse than the fuck room. You serviced ten or twelve inmates a day at the least, sometimes as many as twenty or thirty. Since Neal was now working all day, every day, it really added up. He’d stopped keeping count at seventy-three. That was five days ago.

Master wasn’t even letting him return to his cage at night. Instead they used the sleeping restraints you could buy for a few bucks at SlaveMart to bind him to the bed. Unfortunately for Neal, they weren’t cheap because they were easy to escape, they were cheap because they were made of a plastic that stuck to his sweaty skin, chafed painfully when he moved, and didn’t yield enough for him to take anything but small, shallow breaths.

And the guards hadn’t stopped with the usual five strap system of ankles, knees, groin, chest, and face, either. Neal spent his nights wrapped up like a mummy, with the safety loops for the ankles and wrists pulled so tight that if he lifted his hips or ankles even an inch, the loops would cut off circulation in his limbs. It had nothing to do with keeping him from escaping and everything to do with torturing him.

In the beginning, Neal had counted the days in anticipation of Agent Burke’s arrival. But after seven days with no sign of the agent, Neal had begun to worry, trying his best not to panic as they bound him for the night, knowing that if his heart sped up and his breathing deepened that the straps’ restriction would cause him to hyperventilate. Eight days in, the panic took over full force, the fear of spending the rest of his life on this bed leaving him whimpering and crying through the night. After nine days, he’d stopped feeling at all, allowing himself to fall into a sort of catatonic state as they tugged the straps tight in the evening.

What a fucking fool he’d been, thinking that a promise made to a slave meant anything.

Neal wasn’t angry at Agent Burke, but it definitely smarted. Agent Burke was a busy man with important things to do, things that saved lives and helped curtail black market slave trade. Neal was a slave with a sentence on his head and rebellion on his record, about as unimportant as you could get. Why he had actually expected to make the agent’s calendar, he didn’t know. It was a sharp, painful reminder of who he was: nobody at all.

Neal had been put back in his place, and there were few things the conman in Neal hated more than being put back in his place. Many good things had come from Mozzie’s training, but the aching despair Neal felt when he remembered that he was only a thing, not a person, wasn’t one of them.

“Hey, Neal, you want some water?”

Neal turned his head to the side, blinking over at the boy on the next bed. Like Neal, he was in an erotic offering pose, number six to be precise, though he doubted the kid had any clue there was a clinical name for a naked slave lying on their back with knees pulled up and legs spread wide.

The boy was far from pretty, his pockmarked face, big nose, and crooked teeth not about to win him any beauty awards. Nor was he particularly intelligent. In fact, Neal suspected he was mildly retarded. But looks and brains aside, Benji was a very sweet young boy, and Neal was sorry he’d been sold to this place.

“Thanks, kiddo,” he said, reaching out to accept the water bottle. “I appreciate it.”

Benji gave him a lopsided smile. “I’m sorry Master’s keeping you tied to the bed all the time and stuff, Neal. I guess they think you’re gonna run off again if they let you walk around, but I dunno why they don’t put you in your cage like everybody else. It’s stupid.”

Neal lifted the bottle to his lips, not interested in trying to explain the social and political reasons behind the warden’s little act of revenge to a boy who couldn’t even spell his name. The water tasted good on his dry tongue, but it hurt to swallow.

“I guess they want to be real careful,” Neal said as he handed the bottle back.

Benji nodded, giving Neal another of his crooked grins and opening his mouth to speak, but whatever he was about to say was cut off as the fuck room door swung open and the guard buzzed an inmate in.

Every slave in the room stared in tense silence as the big, bulky inmate swaggered around the room, all of them waiting anxiously to see who would be fucked next.

There were ten beds in the room, each with its very own prison slave. Two were already being fucked and one was busy cleaning fluids out of himself, but the inmate could choose any of the seven left in erotic offering pose number six. Or “open house” as Neal’s unschooled brethren called it. 

At least having an inmate come in so late meant the fuck room might stay open a few minutes longer. Before the escape, Neal had looked forward to the fuck room closing so he could return to his cage and eat his dinner, but now he preferred work hours. At least when he was open for business he could move his legs and didn’t spend half his time fighting the need to gag on the very oversized mouthpiece built into the facial strap that Master had chosen especially for him.

“I’ll take Ladyface,” the inmate said, and Benji sighed in relief. Neal didn’t hold it against him. He’d be sighing in relief, too, if he hadn’t been picked.

“Yeah, fine. You got thirty minutes, Strummerson.”

Thirty minutes until the fuck room shut down and the guards got their turn with him. Then came the straps.

The inmate was both wide and tall with very dark skin and corn rows. Neal didn’t recognize him, but they all became a blur after awhile. He sincerely hoped the man’s penis size wasn’t proportionate to his height.

“Hey, baby,” the man crooned as he dropped his pants and boxers in one move. “What you say we get started fast?”

Neal didn’t reply, wasn’t really expected to reply, and only grimaced a little when the man pried his cheeks apart with one hand and guided the head of his cock into Neal’s asshole with the other, not bothering with any prep beyond a little spit to keep his own dick from chafing. Not that Neal expected anything else; these guys weren’t here for pleasant love making.

He closed his eyes and kept them closed when Sir—no, when the *inmate*— didn’t protest. He hoped Agent Burke was happy knowing that Neal was being well-punished for his crimes. A small, twisted part of him wondered if the agent had purposely gotten Neal’s hopes up with his promise to visit just so he could crush them back down, but the logical side of him knew Agent Burke wasn’t that sort of man. He was masterful, he was powerful, but he was also honest and good and fair.

Whatever reason Agent Burke had for putting Neal in this place, it wasn’t out of spite. Weak men did things out of spite, men like the warden, and Agent Burke was the opposite of weak. If he believed that prison slavery was what Neal needed and deserved, then it must be true.

Neal’s eyes snapped open, though he wasn’t really seeing. He was too busy screaming at himself on the inside. No, no, no. He could *not* let himself start thinking like that. Being treated like he was worthless was beginning to make him believe he was worthless. Neal wasn’t innocent, not even close, but he did *not* deserve all the things that had been done to him in here, much less “need” them.

Neal had never intentionally hurt someone, not even another slave. He had taken only from the rich and from people who were criminals themselves. He was a good slave who had done some bad things in an effort to serve his mistress. Agent Burke was an honorable man, and Neal had no doubt that the agent truly believed this was a fair punishment, but Neal did not have to accept that as truth. Even good people were wrong sometimes.

No one deserved to spend their life being sexually brutalized by hundreds of men, not even law-breaking slaves. Agent Burke was good, Agent Burke was honest, Agent Burke was fair, but he was also wrong. Neal did not deserve this. No one did.

It was difficult, but Neal had to keep a clear head. It was a fact that, as a government employed free man, Agent Burke had the right to do whatever he wished with Neal, including giving his body away to any and every man. Neal would never argue that, nor would he claim that Agent Burke was wrong for making him a prison slave. Deciding what would happen to him had never been Neal’s decision and never would be. 

However, it was also a fact that Neal’s service here was not simply a command, it was a *punishment.* He had the right to think that prison slavery as a *punishment* was unfair, that it didn’t fit the crime. The law might say he didn’t even have that, but he did. As a living creature, Neal had the right to think. It was the one right no one could take away unless he allowed it—and he was *not* going to allow it.

“Get off him, Strummerson.”

Neal started at the sound of the guard’s voice. They never stopped a fucking. What was going on?

“I ain’t finished,” the inmate protested, thrusting into Neal to highlight the point. “Still going.”

Neal couldn’t see around the inmate’s big chest, but he could hear the crack of the guard extending his baton. “Get off of him, now,” the guard repeated, sounding dangerous. “This one has places to be.”

Places to be? Since when did he have places to be? He’d been on this damn bed for ten days now, and suddenly he had places to be? Neal didn’t know whether to be elated or terrified.

“Get dressed, Pretty,” the guard ordered as the caveman jumped off the bed, pouting like a little boy while the guard leered at Neal through his Hitler mustache. “You got company, slut.”

o o o

Peter wasn’t sure whether to sit or to stand. The room had no chairs, only a queen sized bed with a lumpy looking mattress in the center. It had a clinical feel to it, like the dirty, overweight brother of a hospital bed. Peter didn’t really want to sit on it, but he’d been waiting for twenty minutes, and he was tired of standing.

Why the hell did they put him in the room for conjugal visits? What did they think he was here to do, woo Neal Caffrey? Ask him out for dinner and a movie? Peter paused at the thought, brow furrowing in sudden suspicion. 

If that Charles Haverty asshat from the records department had been spreading more rumors about Neal being Peter’s one true love, he was going to break the bastard’s nose. It wasn’t his fault that no one else in the office seemed to know what a dedicated search looked like. The picture of Caffrey on his desk was a *reference*, and after they caught him Peter had gotten rid of it. Okay, he’d stuck it in his desk drawer. But it was definitely going back in Neal’s file tomorrow. Absolutely. First thing.

Sure.

Peter perked up at the sound of the door opening. Finally! How long did it take to get Neal from the cafeteria or wherever the hell he worked and across the building? Was it so hard to remove a hairnet and wash canned beans off your hands?

“It’s about time—“ Peter cut off as Neal actually entered the room, not believing what he saw.

Neal looked like shit. For real. And considering how attractive the man was, it was a real testament to the kind of things that had gone down in this place since Peter had returned the slave to the warden’s care. He wasn’t a total fool; he’d known that the staff would be pissed that Caffrey had flown the coop and that they might rough him up a bit. But this? This was insane.

Peter couldn’t make a detailed analysis since Neal was dressed in loose prison scrubs and an oversized hoodie, but his eyes were sunken, his cheekbones hollowed, and he had bright purple bruises ringing his neck. There was a clear handprint on his left cheek, and his lips were chapped to the point of bleeding. There was also a strange, horizontal bruise across his face, but Peter couldn’t figure out for the life of him what possibly could have made it. 

The normally pristine boy’s hair was filthy, and there were small cuts on his chin that looked like they were probably from a safety razor. Neal was most certainly not up to his usual standards, and that was just the parts of him Peter could actually see.

It seemed Neal was walking too slow for the guard, because the man shoved him forward, sending the slave toppling to the floor in a heap. Neal made a small sound of pain as his body hit the concrete, then another as he tried to push himself up. Peter automatically reached out to help him, stopping short when the slave flinched violently.

“Knock three times when you’re finished with it,” the guard said in a bored voice. “Have fun, Fed.” The door slammed shut, leaving Peter alone in a room designated for conjugals with a battered looking Neal Caffrey.

“Hello, Agent Burke.” The words were low and hoarse. Peter watched, feeling useless, as Neal dragged himself up using the edge of the mattress, grunting softly in pain as he managed to pull himself to his feet, swaying lightly as he turned to face Peter. It looked like a brisk wind could knock him down.

“Sorry,” Neal said, licking his chapped lips. “Just a little dizzy.”

“Dammit, Caffrey,” Peter said, feeling sick at the sight of Neal’s bruised and beaten body. “You need to sit. Get on the bed.”

The slave’s entire body tensed up at the words, and Neal slowly turned his head, looking down at the bed like it was a malfunctioning septic tank. He obviously wasn’t up for standing, though, because after a moment he obeyed, perching on the very edge of the admittedly nasty looking mattress. He made a move to put his hands behind his back, ever faithful to his training, then stopped with a grimace when his shoulder made a disturbing popping sound.

Peter moved toward him, staring down at his hunched, broken frame. “Shit, Neal, what happened to you?”

Neal let out a sour laugh. “Seems the guards around here don’t like it much when you walk out the front door on their watch, sir. Something about wage reductions and lost break times?” He tried to shrug in his usual don’t-give-a-damn manner, but his wince of pain ruined it. “Moved my shifts up to, well, all the time. I guess I haven’t been holding up as well as usual, sir.” He smirked, though it was obviously an effort to do so. “Not nearly as well as that suit of yours does, Agent Burke.”

His bloodied lips somehow managed to form his trademark cocky smile, and Peter felt a rush of admiration. Trust Caffrey to keep his cool even when things were going to hell. The boy would have been considered sassy even if he wasn’t a slave.

That attitude, that willingness to push the boundary between slave and free man, was what Peter liked most about the kid. It was also what drove him crazy. Neal had actually sent Peter postcards from prison, saying happy birthday and merry Christmas and even reminding Peter when his anniversary was coming up. If Peter had reported it to Vice Collar, Neal could have had a year or more added to his contract for harassment of a free man. Not that Peter would have reported him, especially since he never could remember the exact date he’d been married on.

One thing was certain: Neal Caffrey would never have sat silently in a cage while the government ransacked the house around him, poised like a statue as SWAT teams rushed in. Not even with a thousand years of training. Peter liked that about him, liked it a lot. If there were more slaves like Neal, Peter wouldn’t have to work ten hour days at Vice Collar.

“Neal, I’m so sorry,” Peter said, gesturing toward Neal’s bruises. “This place is being ridiculous. I’ll make some calls, okay? This is too much, escape or no escape.”

Surprise shone on Neal’s face, but it was quickly replaced by obviously feigned indifference, and he gave a little shrug. Peter frowned. The fact that the words ‘obviously feigned’ were in the same sentence with ‘Neal Caffrey’ revealed just how off the slave was feeling.

“You think so, sir?” Neal questioned, sounding as if he was choosing his words very carefully. “If I may ask… What, exactly, do you think is too much?” His tone clearly implied that he had expected Peter to be all fine and dandy with this sort of abuse.

It kind of pissed Peter off.

“Look, I know that I work at Vice Collar and to a slave like you that makes me Enemy #1. But believe it or not, I’m not real big on treating slaves like literal objects. Say what you want; a slave lives and breaths. It’s not a Ford Taurus that you can kick the crap out of when it breaks down and it doesn’t feel a thing.” Peter shook his head, pointing a finger at the slave, eyes narrowing. “I’m not saying that you didn’t get exactly what you deserved when you were sent to this place, Caffrey. You landed yourself here when you chose to break the law. But that there?” Peter gestured toward the necklace of bruises ringing his throat. “You could have died!”

Neal’s eyes flashed in comprehension—though what exactly he was comprehending, Peter wasn’t sure—and the slave nodded as he tried and failed once again to put his arms behind his back. Was Neal trying to be respectful and emphasize that he knew his place or was it simply old habit? Peter suspected the latter. He was fairly certain the only place Neal believed he belonged was way, way above everyone else.

“What happened to your shoulder?”

Neal tried to shrug in answer, the idiot, then grimaced. He really needed to stop trying to move that shoulder. “It was stuck in a weird position last night, sir. It’s not dislocated, but I did something to it. Nothing that won’t heal,” he added quickly. “In fact, I’m sure I can move it right now—“ He gritted his teeth, grabbing his arm and steeling himself like he was going to force the shoulder into submission.

“Stop, stop,” Peter said, reaching out and grabbing the slave’s hand, not missing the way Neal flinched. “Dammit, Neal, don’t do that! You don’t need to put your hands behind your back for me. Well, as long as you’re not doing anything that deserves a pair of handcuffs.”

‘Like escaping from prison and risking your life for a mistress who obviously doesn’t give a damn about you,’ Peter added silently as Neal stared up at him, those blue eyes striking even with dark circles beneath them.

“So, horrible condition aside, what did you want me here for, Neal?” Peter questioned. Maybe getting down to business would keep Neal from trying to practice his doctor con on his own body.

“I have a proposal, Agent Burke,” Neal said, sitting up very straight in a way that made him look like he belonged in a conference room, not a prison. His usual dashing smile was back, but the bruises and cuts made his normally charming grin look mildly disturbing. “Obviously this isn’t how I wanted to make my offer,” he gestured vaguely at his body, “since I’m certainly not prime real estate right now. More like a foreclosure. But hey, this will all heal within a week or so, and I won’t even need a fresh coat of paint.”

He paused, like maybe he was waiting for a laugh, but Peter didn’t find anything funny about the obvious abuse the slave had suffered.

“Right… Anyway, my point being that this body isn’t damaged in any way. I’ll be as good as new soon. And as handsome as ever.” Neal’s voice was far from humble, and that *did* make Peter chuckle.

“Yeah, well, you’ve never lacked for brains or beauty, Caffrey.”

Neal nodded, leaning forward like he was sharing some sort of secret. “Exactly, Agent Burke. I have the brains and the beauty. Not a bad combination. The Bureau could use me.” He paused, a bit dramatically in Peter’s opinion, the little diva. “*You* could use me.”

o o o

“Yeah, well, you’ve never lacked for brains or beauty, Caffrey.” Neal latched onto the words, despite the strange way being called by his last name made him feel. 

Agent Burke had acknowledged that the slave had desirable qualities, and Neal knew that if you could get someone to admit that the product had good qualities, you could get them to imagine what they might *do* with said qualities. It might take a little extra creativity, his client being someone who was already free to do whatever the hell he wanted with the product, but he could do it. Neal had sold himself a thousand times, he could do it again.

Hopefully Agent Burke wouldn’t notice how badly Neal’s hands were shaking. 

“Exactly, Agent Burke. I have the brains and the beauty. Not a bad combination. The Bureau could use me.” Neal had to take a second to collect himself before he was able to choke out the next words, the painful burning in his ass making them feel thick on his tongue. “*You* could use me.”

Not that Agent Burke seemed too interested in that, not now, at least. Earlier, when he’d ordered Neal onto the bed, Neal had been one step away from crying as he cursed himself for not specifying what *kind* of meeting he wanted with the agent, but it quickly became obvious that being in the conjugal room was coincidental or, more likely, a crude assumption on the part of the guards. 

Honestly, the agent seemed more interested in the bruises on Neal’s body than the body itself. He’d obviously been angry, but not the normal anger of a master toward a slave who messed itself up. The anger seemed directed elsewhere, maybe at Master warden? Or the prison system at large? Neal didn’t care, as long as it wasn’t directed at him.

It *was* a little weird how disturbed Agent Burke seemed by Neal’s appearance considering he was the one who had sent Neal here. Prison slavery was a rough gig even when you weren’t in trouble. What had the man expected him to look like? It had taken Neal awhile, but it all clicked when Agent Burke had commented that the way he’d been choked by the guards could have killed him. That made sense—Neal deserved to be punished for his crimes, but he didn’t deserve to die over them. It was actually a generous thing for a free man to think.

“How, exactly, could the Bureau use a slave two steps away from being a rebel?” Agent Burke questioned, looking down at Neal like the slave was dirt on the bottom of his wingtip shoes.

“Vice Collar could use me,” Neal said as confidently as he could. Agent Burke seemed to respond best when Neal was straight forward and assertive, obviously not interested in wasting time on social niceties when he could be getting down to the guts of the matter. “I know the slave trade, inside and out.”

Agent Burke gave him a ‘no shit’ look, and Neal quickly added, “I don’t mean just from the point of view of the slave. I have experience in forging every kind of slave implant on the market, in rewriting registrations, in creating false trading reports, and, conversely, in discovering data falsified by other forgers. I know all about the high dollar equipment on the market, including which pieces may not be as legitimate as people think.” He paused, smiling cockily despite the way his heart was pounding and his palms were sweating. “Allegedly, of course.”

“Ah, yes, because you’ve got us *all* fooled about that,” Agent Burke said with obvious amusement, even chuckling a little.

Neal’s cheeks reddened and he hid a scowl, hating the man for a moment. Being laughed at was one of his least favorite things, and around Agent Burke it happened pretty damn often. Neal understood—he was only a slave, and slaves who bragged about their so-called “skills” didn’t look competent, they looked stupid. Chimps could use screwdrivers and hammer nails; that didn’t mean you wanted them building your house. But he still got sick of the way Agent Burke always seemed to be laughing at him like he was a little boy playing dress up in mommy’s clothes.

Neal might never be important or capable like Agent Burke, but he was damn well trained in forgery and theft. Would it hurt the man to acknowledge that instead of acting like everything about Neal was a joke? He had never pretended to be Agent Burke’s equal, not even when the man was three steps behind him and flying blind. Neal had always been willing to admit that he was the boy to Agent Burke’s man, no matter how pretentious he liked to act. Would it kill Agent Burke to simply acknowledge that Neal had *some* value?

“Yes, sir,” Neal shot back, though his mind was screaming at him to let it go. “I have you all fooled, kind of like you have yourself fooled into thinking that you know anything about women.” Neal flinched at his own words, wishing the floor would simply open up and swallow him. Was he out of his mind, talking to Agent Burke like that?

The agent looked at him in disbelief, eyebrows raising. “This coming from someone who doesn’t even rate as a man.” 

They stared at each other for a moment, and Neal figured the man was trying to decide whether or not to punch the already battered slave in the face or just go right for the balls, but when he spoke, it was in a decidedly guilty tone. “Hell, that was mean. Sorry, Caffrey.”

For what? Stating the truth? Neal was a slave. He was not considered a real man. He might not like it, but it was a fact. No matter how many women he fucked or how big his dick was or how many times he had his prostate examined, he would never be a man.

“I really am a good slave, Agent Burke,” Neal said, trying to steer the conversation back on course. “Even if sometimes I speak when I should shut the hell up. I would be a very good slave to you. I was very obedient to my mistress, and I would be very obedient to you, sir.” He paused. “And I’ll work on keeping my mouth shut.”

“Oh no, we couldn’t have that,” Agent Burke said, voice heavy with sarcasm. “Polite Neal Caffrey. It might throw the universe off balance.”

Yeah, it really might. Keeping his mouth shut was not Neal’s greatest talent. He thought so much and so fast; sometimes the ideas just spewed out of his mouth like vomit. With Mistress it hadn’t mattered, but with Agent Burke it could be deadly.

Belonging to Mistress was easy. In a way, Neal was the dominate one in their relationship, as inappropriate as that sounded. He was outgoing and driven while she was gentle and subdued. Deep down, Neal knew that Mistress wasn’t really strong enough to control him, not that he would ever admit that out loud. Hence all of the criminal activity behind her back, even if it was done for “her own good.”

Agent Burke was the antithesis of Mistress. He was just as outgoing and driven as Neal, but a thousand times stronger. He reeked of dominance, and one look from the man was enough to remind Neal that he wasn’t a person but a thing. As Agent Burke’s property, there wouldn’t be a moment when he wouldn’t feel like the slave that he was. No more running cons to remind himself that he was more than a brainless toy for free men to play with. At best, he’d be Agent Burke’s useful possession—the man definitely didn’t like or trust Neal enough to think of him as a pet. And at worst… Neal really didn’t want to imagine what ‘at worst’ might be.

It was worth it, though, to get him out of here. Neal couldn’t take another four years of this torture. It would break him, he was sure of it. And unlike the last time he’d been truly broken, there would be no putting himself back together.

Agent Burke sighed, leaning heavily against the door. “Let’s be honest here, Caffrey. Slave or not, you were in love with Ka—with your mistress. You worshipped the ground she walked on. Even if you *could* help the Bureau, which I’m not so sure I believe, what’s to keep you from taking off after your precious little mistress-slash-girlfriend the moment you walk out of here? Like you said yourself, you can re-write any registration, forge any implant.”

A good question, one that Neal was more than prepared for. “Tracking collar. The Will Bender, model SX-12. Solid steel with an impenetrable locking system. You won’t be removing it with anything less than a pair of industrial bolt cutters. It has the latest in GPS tracking so that you can pull the slave’s location up on your phone at any time.”

Neal paused, not exactly eager to spill the details of the add on features, but he could tell by the look on Agent Burke’s face that the man was nowhere near convinced.

“Plus it has a shocking component that knocks you unconscious if you leave the preset radius.” The terrifying part being that the radius could be programmed as small as three by three feet. “It works manually, too,” Neal admitted, trying to gauge by the look on Agent Burke’s face whether the idea of said feature pleased him. Or worse, turned him on. Neal hated being shocked. “You can control the voltages, though, so it only hurts the slave instead of knocking them totally out.” Hurts like fucking hell.

“Sounds expensive,” Agent Burke said, not looking all that impressed.

“Yeah, it is,” Neal replied, a smirk growing on his face. “But I happen to know that there’s one locked away in the cold case archives, sir. Probably listed under ‘Moorington Manor,’ or maybe ‘Moorington, Daniel.’ He never came to pick it up.”

Agent Burke gave a short laugh. “Do I want to know how you know that, boy?”

“Probably not, sir,” Neal admitted with a cheeky grin. “But it’s there. I promise.”

“I don’t know, Caffrey,” Agent Burke said with a sigh. “Hughes is not going to like this. Believe it or not, he is less than fond of you. I don’t think he’d want you to serve his coffee, much less touch his cases. And fancy schmancy collar aside, I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you.”

Neal gritted his teeth, wanting to cry as he felt the sale starting to slip away. This is what he did, dammit! He had to recover this.

“Please, sir,” Neal said, on the edge of begging. “Please, at least take some time to consider it.”

Agent Burke shook his head, looking suspicious. “Do you really hate this place that much, Caffrey? I know it’s not the Hilton, and trust me when I say that they are going to catch the riot act for all those marks they put on you, but I have a tough time believing there’s no ulterior motive here. One with the initials ‘K.M.’, perhaps? The Neal Caffrey I know would rather give up a few creature comforts than walk around on the leash of the agent he spent three years flaunting himself to.”

Neal’s face burned at the words, and he found himself tongue tied, an unusual experience for him. Did Agent Burke *really* think Neal was such a slut that he’d rather spend another four years basically being whored out to hundreds of men than bow to the agent’s demands? 

A horrible thought passed through Neal’s mind. Was that why he was here to begin with? Had Agent Burke seen the way Neal acted, taken it as a sexual advance, and assumed that Neal would want this? Or at least not be bothered by it, being what he was? Neal’s eyes began to sting, and he squared his jaw, blinking rapidly to clear the tears away. The bastard was not going to make him cry.

Neal had honestly thought that Agent Burke was one of the few who didn’t judge a slave entirely on a test given to them by a high school dropout being paid minimum wage to check a random box under ‘Product Usage.’ He’d referred to Neal as ‘slave’ and ‘boy’ and ‘kid,’ but he had never once called him ‘slut’ or ‘whore’ or even ‘fuckling,’ the rude word for a sex slave, which Neal technically was according to his registration.

Almost all slaves were used for sex at one time or another, but those who were registered as sexual entertainment were widely disdained by free men and slaves alike. Something about how if all the breeders thought you were capable of learning was how to spread your legs and yell ‘more, please, more!’, then you must be really useless for anything else. 

Never mind that product usages were based off of sales data and sex slaves sold better than any other kind. No, that couldn’t possibly be the reason you were tagged for sex. It had to be because you were destined from birth to be a whore.

No wonder Agent Burke had chosen this heinous place as punishment for Neal’s not-so-heinous crimes. He’d probably assumed that for a fuckling like Neal, being endlessly penetrated was no big deal, or even thought that he’d like it. Or maybe… maybe he *did* know how terrible it was and this was some sort of ironic punishment for being a tease and “flaunting” himself to a Federal agent? 

Neal really wasn’t sure which was worse: the idea that Agent Burke believed Neal enjoyed this hell or the possibility that Neal’s own actions were the reason that he was here and not hauling garbage or cleaning bed pans or in some other more common criminal slave position.

Whatever. It didn’t matter. The past was over and done, and he should just move on. Just let it go and—“Is that why I’m here?” Neal winced as the words spilled out of his mouth. Good job with the moving on there.

Agent Burke blinked, looking confused. “Excuse me?”

Neal took a deep breath, meeting the agent’s eyes in the most respectful way possible. “Is that why I’m here? For flaunting myself to you?” His voice caught. “Because I swear that I never meant to… flaunt myself.” The words came out small and helpless, much to his own distaste. But that was reality, wasn’t it? He *was* small and helpless next to Agent Burke.

The agent stared at him for a moment, brow wrinkled up and head sort of tilted to the side, like he wasn’t quite sure what was going on but was hard at work trying to figure it out. “It was metaphorical, Caffrey. The flaunting thing. You’re in here because you broke the law. What I meant is that I figure I’m the last person on earth you would want to belong to, which makes me suspicious of your intentions.”

Neal shook his head, not sure what to say or what his next move should be. “Agent Burke, sir…” Neal licked his sore lips and rose slowly from the bed, ignoring the ache of his body. “I know you think I deserve to be here. Maybe because of what I did, or maybe because of what I am.” He moved across the room, using the wall to help lower himself to his knees beside the agent.

“Neal, don’t do that,” Agent Burke said, his voice a combination of annoyance and worry. “You’re hurt, for God’s sake.”

Neal ignored the words, tilting his head up so he could see the man above him. It had been a long time since he had willingly knelt for anyone other than his mistress. He was like a dog, forced to crane his neck to even see his master. It was humiliating and, at the same time, it was comforting.

Since he was a little boy, Neal had associated kneeling with safety. He’d believed that as long as he was kneeling, the big person above him would protect him in a world where he had no power, none at all. Neal was wise enough now to see the lie for what it was, but the association was still there. All the retraining in the world couldn’t completely wipe out feelings that were hardwired into you before you could speak in complete sentences.

Damn Special Agent Peter Burke and his uncanny ability to make Neal want to grovel at his feet.

“Please, Agent Burke,” Neal said, desperation leaking into his voice. “I’m of no use here, whatever my registration says. Even when put to use, I’m not living up to my training. It may not seem like it, sir, but I *am* very well trained—in stuff other than picking locks and faking registration cards, I mean. I served in a high class setting for almost nine years.” Nine years he’d spent locked inside himself, the world little more than a blur of mindless obedience.

“Neal, I don’t know…”

Time to show his cards. It was dangerous, making this play, and it could very well backfire on him, but it was worth it to get him out of here. 

“I can help you catch the Dutchman.” Neal held his breath as Agent Burke stared down at him, eyes narrowing.

“What do you know about the Dutchman, Neal?” he questioned in what Neal recognized as his interrogation voice.

“I know that you call him the Dutchman because he disappears every time you get close, like the ghost ship, and that you—“

“I didn’t ask you why we call him that,” Agent Burke cut in, sounding annoyed. “I asked you what you know about him.”

He had to tread carefully now, be very subtle with his words. “Take on my contract, and I’ll tell you.” Or not. Treading carefully was overrated. Punches to the gut were in this season.

“Neal, you don’t want to go down this path.” There was stark warning in the words, and Neal knew he might be facing serious repercussions. But what could be worse than the life he was living now?

Without thinking, Neal bowed down as far as he could, forehead almost to the floor, then lifted his arms up as high as possible, like he was reaching out to a god above. The movement elicited a sound of confusion from Agent Burke, and Neal heard his wingtips shuffle back until they hit the wall.

He didn’t know what Neal was doing, probably thought the slave had lost his mind or something. Only the richest of the rich bothered to teach their slaves more than the standard standing and kneeling poses pre-taught by traders everywhere, and Neal doubted Agent Burke had ever seen a rich man’s slave beg. Because that’s what this was, a silent and respectful form of begging.

Neal lowered his hands and sat up. Most likely this sudden display had only succeeded in making Agent Burke uncomfortable, but it had seemed like the natural thing to do. Agent Burke seriously got into his head.

“What I know is that I can help you catch him, sir,” Neal said sincerely. “Please… let’s call it a trial run. You have my contract temporarily transferred, and if we don’t have the Dutchman in custody within a month, you send me back here.” Neal’s stomach twisted as he forced out the words. He wasn’t sure he could take it, escaping this place for a second time only to be returned once more. Which simply meant he had to work as hard as he could to be useful, becoming an invaluable asset inside the office *and* out.

Neal didn’t know much about Agent Burke’s home life other than the fact that he and his wife Elizabeth were happily married and had no slaves, but happy marriage or not, men always had needs they couldn’t ask of their wife. He was sure that Agent Burke was no exception. Whether it was something as mundane as a deep blow job or as exotic as bloodplay, Neal could and would fulfill it. He was going to make sure the man found him very useful indeed.

“But if I do help you catch him,” Neal continued, “then you consider taking me on for the rest of my criminal contract.” Neal flashed the man his best smile. “I think it’s a pretty good deal. Like you said, I have the beauty and the brains, sir.”

Agent Burke stared down at him for several seconds then sighed, shaking his head. “You are unbelievable, you know that? I have never, in all my years at Vice Collar, seen a slave like you.”

Neal stayed silent, not certain whether that was a good or a bad thing. Considering how many times he’d foiled the agent’s plans, it was probably a bad thing.

“You realize that if I okay this, Hughes is going to stick you on me, right? I’m going to have to keep you in my damn house, boy.”

“Yes, sir,” Neal said carefully, not sure where this was going.

“And since you drive me crazy,” Agent Burke said, making a face, “you had better show me that you’re worth as much as you claim, you understand me?”

Neal nodded rapidly. “Yes, sir, I understand.” He paused. “So is that a yes? You’ll be my master?”

Another sigh. “Yeah, it’s a deal—as long as Hughes gives it the thumbs up. I take your contract for a month, you help me find the Dutchman.”

“And then you consider taking the rest of my contract,” Neal added, not wanting that bit to slip the agent’s mind. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll *consider* it. Meaning I’ll *think* about it.” The man scowled. “Dammit, all these years of refusing to buy a slave, and when I finally get one, it’s Neal fucking Caffrey. Somebody dial up the irony gods.”

Neal couldn’t help but smirk. “You did once tell me that I belonged on a leash, sir. Not that a leash would actually have kept me from taking that painting. Since I know how to use scissors and all.”

“Ha ha ha, you’re a laugh a minute. You ever consider a career in stand up?” Agent Burke reached down, holding out a hand, and Neal took it cautiously, wincing as the man pulled him to his feet. Damn inmates and their oversexed dicks.

“Okay, look, I’ll talk to Hughes about this in the morning, get him in on the game, and then tomorrow I’ll come get you—“

“Tomorrow?” A wave of lightheadedness washed over Neal and he almost fell to his knees again, Agent Burke’s arm around his shoulders the only thing keeping him from hitting the floor. He reached out and grabbed one of the agent’s lapels without thinking, crumpling the fabric in his fist.

“No, please, Master, don’t leave me here. Please, Master, don’t leave me!” 

What if tonight was the night they strapped him in too tight and in the morning he wasn’t able to get his hands to work at all? What use would he be to anyone then? He would be a prison slave forever. And what if the guards found out that Agent Burke was taking him tomorrow? What kind of tortures would they put him through? Neal shivered. If Agent Burke was going to take him, he wanted to go *now.*

Agent Burke narrowed his eyes. “Neal,” he said slowly, “what aren’t you telling me about this place?”

Neal shook his head, confused. “Nothing, Master,” he answered honestly.

“Uh-huh.” The doubt was clear in the man’s voice. “We’ll talk more about it later,” he said, tugging his lapel free of Neal’s grip.

Talk more about what? Neal shuddered. Surely Agent Burke didn’t want to hear about his time as a prison slave? To lay back and listen as Neal detailed the humiliation and the fear, the smells and the tastes, the mind blowing pain and the soul crushing pleasure? Would he smile and laugh and ask if Neal had enjoyed it? Would he tell him what a good boy he was for taking it even though it hurt so bad? Would he—

Neal cut his thoughts off abruptly. Or possibly his memories. Sometimes it was hard to tell if he was simply imagining some horrible scenario or if he was remembering it. Either way, he couldn’t be thinking that way. What Agent Burke wanted, Agent Burke would get. Reliving it all through words was a hell of a lot better than reliving it for real.

Agent Burke rubbed his forehead, looking even more tired than he had when he’d first come in. “Okay, okay, you can come with me now, all right? I’ll just tell the warden that I already transferred the contract.” He shook his head. “God, Hughes is going to have my balls for this.”

“Thank you, sir,” Neal said softly, earning himself a hard look from Agent Burke.

“Listen here, Caffrey. If I’m taking you home tonight, then you are going to be very, very good. Picture perfect. Forget handcuffs or anything else with locks, I’m going to zip tie you to a post or something. And if I think for an instant that you’re trying to escape, you will be back here in a flash, and I guarantee you’ll never see the outside world again, got it?”

Sweat broke out on Neal’s forehead as he quickly replied, “Yes, sir, yes, yes, I get it, sir. No running away. I’ll be the essence of a good boy. Seriously, I will stay right where you put me and won’t move a freaking inch, Master.”

Agent Burke grimaced. “Um, I don’t know if I’m really comfortable with you calling me ‘Master,’ Neal. How about you call me Agent? Or Burke? Or what the hell, call me Peter. Considering that we’re going to be sharing a bathroom, we might as well be on a first name basis.”

Neal winced at the request. He didn’t want to fuck things up before they’d even walked out the door, but the title thing was a sore spot. Mozzie had done his best to break Neal of calling whoever held his contract ‘Master,’ but his original training had included several instances where he’d been tricked into calling his master by another name or title then had been extensively punished for doing do. Logically, Neal knew that Agent Burke was unlikely to be playing the “name game,” but emotionally…

“Okay, Pe—“ He cut off, coughing to cover up his stutter. “Okay, P-P-Peter?” It was more of a question than a statement, and Neal suddenly realized he was cowering back like a whipped dog. When had that happened?

“Is it really that hard for you to say?” Agent Burke questioned, looking at him like he was insane.

Neal gave an embarrassed shrug. “My training in properly addressing my master was… vigorous, sir.” 

“Wow, I never figured you for that kind.” Agent Burke seemed genuinely surprised.

Neal wasn’t sure what he meant by that, so he shrugged again. “Sorry. It’s no problem. I’ll call you—“ He cut off once more, fighting back his panic at the mere idea of speaking Agent Burke’s name. “P-Pet—“

“Hey, it’s okay,” the man said, holding up his hands. “How about ‘Agent’? Could you call me that?”

“I swear, I’ll call you whatever you want, A—dammit!—A-Agent.” Neal grimaced at the ghost pains rising in his chest. He needed to get ahold of himself—hell, he’d been calling the man ‘Agent Burke’ just a few minutes ago! 

Neal took a deep breath, steadying himself. He wasn’t three years old, he wasn’t in training, and Agent Burke wasn’t trying to trick him into saying his name so that he could hold Neal underwater until everything started to fade away, pull him back out for a breath, and then shove him back in, over and over again until his burning lungs were so full of water that he could no longer suck in enough air to scream.

Right?

“Okay,” Agent Burke said, his voice overly casual. “Scratch that. How about this: You start thinking about calling me Peter. Mull it over or whatever. Chew on it for awhile. And when you feel like you can say my name without looking like you’re about to puke, then go for it. Can you handle that?”

Neal nodded, as embarrassed as he was grateful. Already Agent Burke—no, *Peter*, he needed to start thinking of him as Peter—was seeing how pitiful and incompetent Neal could be. But he would work on it. Neal had conquered bigger things than this, had rewired training even more deeply ingrained than the name game. He just needed some time to work on it.

“I can handle it, sir,” Neal said, then added, “after all, I wouldn’t want to make you feel old or anything.” He knew he should drop the sassy act, but his ego could use a little boost after that stuttering display of cowardice.

Agent Bur—Peter—snorted. “Like you’re a spring chicken. Didn’t you hit thirty recently? The big 3-0? Just because you get carded at PG-13 movies doesn’t mean you can make fun of us commonfolk who actually look our age.”

Neal chuckled, and Peter put a hand on his upper back, steering him toward the door.

“Let’s get out of here, and we’ll get you put to good use right away. I have a very important task for you, Neal.”

Neal tensed at the words, wondering what, exactly, he could do for Peter right then and there. None of the answers he came up with were particularly pleasant. “Doing what, Master?” he asked, aiming for careless but pretty sure he missed the mark.

Peter smirked, eyes shining with wicked amusement. “Figuring out what the hell I’m going to tell my wife.”


	3. Woman on the Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which El misses her honey, Peter is as insensitive as hell, and Neal is scared as shit.

El sighed as she stared at the plate across the table. Its contents had long gone cold, but having it there was comforting, a reminder that she didn’t live in this house all by her lonesome—though lately it seemed like she did. The nosy old lady down the street had actually asked if she and Peter had separated. El made sure Satchmo did his duty in her lawn the next time they went for a walk.

In the woman’s defense, Peter’s latest case did have him at the office pretty much around the clock, arriving home long after the eight o’clock news lulled Mrs. Widgepin to sleep under her afghan. 

El understood that Peter’s work had to come first in the literal sense, just as she knew that she would always be number one in his heart, but it did get lonely in the evenings with only Satch to talk to. Not that the pup wasn’t a fantastic friend—and hell, he farted less than Peter—but he wasn’t much of a conversationalist.

Sometimes El found herself talking to no one, gesturing and laughing as if there was someone next to her, while she chopped veggies and heated marinara sauce for a dinner that Peter would probably miss.

Not that El wasn’t a busy lady. Her job was a whirlwind, too, especially when you got down to the wire on big events. But it didn’t require the same complete dedication that being an agent did. If something went wrong at her office, a client might have to drink cabernet instead of pinot noir. If something went bad at the Bureau, people could die. But this knowledge didn’t make her any less lonesome as she crawled into her cold, empty bed at night.

“Okay, Satchmo,” she said tiredly, waving the dog toward the table. “Go ahead and eat up.”

Satch gave her a big doggie grin as he leaped onto the chair, scarfing down Peter’s cold dinner for the fourth time this week. The pup was going to be as big as a house if her hubby didn’t start making it home for dinner more often.

El stood and began gathering the dishes, pausing to pour herself another glass of wine. She wasn’t even sure if Peter would make it home before she went to bed tonight. She’d spoken to him briefly earlier that day, but he’d been very distracted, mumbling something about keeping promises and overdue meetings and pictures hidden in desk drawers, then he’d had to go.

God, she missed him.

The sink was almost full, so El squeezed some soap into the water and began to scrape at the plates. It was nights like this, when she’d worked hard all day and didn’t even have Peter there to keep her animated, that El wished her husband would agree to buy a shared contract on a house slave to clean up a couple of times a week. She understood that he spent all day dealing with the slave trade and didn’t want to bring it home, but it was impossible to find maids these days. SlaveMart had pushed pretty much all of the free men’s businesses out of the market

El was lucky she planned high society events or she might have been at risk of being replaced by a slave herself. Why pay for someone to plan your party when you have a slave living in your home who can do it for free? It had happened to her friend Claire, who made most of her money doing Halloween bashes and kids’ birthday parties.

There was a sound at the door and El dropped the plate she’d been scrubbing into the soapy water, a smile growing on her face as she wiped her hands on a dish rag. It looked like Peter had made it home after all. She wouldn’t be sleeping alone, but her honey was going to be stuck eating a PB&J since his dinner had been sacrificed to Satchmo.

“Hey, hon!” she called out as she entered the living room, ready to give her man a big kiss. “I’m so glad you made it home…” Her words trailed off, eyes growing wide as she took in the sight before her.

A young, slim man was standing at Peter’s side, dressed in orange scrubs, a filthy sweatshirt, and shackles. His head was lowered, making it difficult to see his face, but he looked quite handsome even with dirty hair and distinct bruising on his arms and neck and face and—well, pretty much everywhere.

It wasn’t until he raised his head that El recognized him. Those bright blue eyes had stared at her from every corner of Peter’s study once upon a time, and they’d even kept his wanted poster pinned to the fridge, though this version was much skinnier.

Neal Caffrey. The young man was Neal Caffrey, criminal slave and her husband’s biggest obsession for almost three years. Standing in her house. In chains. Well, wasn’t this an interesting development?

“Hey, hon,” Peter said, looking uncomfortable as he glanced between her and Neal. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

El’s lip twitched in amusement. That was all he had to say? There was a chained, bedraggled Neal Caffrey in the middle of their den and he was sorry he was late? Ignoring the elephant in the room, much?

“It’s okay, hon,” she replied, humoring him as she tried to figure out how, exactly, to broach this oh-so-tender subject. She knew that, near the end of his search, some of Peter’s fellow Feds had started teasing him about his obsession with Neal, and she didn’t want to rattle his feathers. However, it would be nice to know why there was a criminal tracking dirt on their carpet.

El moved forward and pecked Peter on the lips without taking her eyes off of the man next to him. “So…” She spread her hands, raising an eyebrow as Peter faked a cough, shifting from foot to foot.

“Uh, well, we were, uh, pretty busy at work today, you know.”

Okay, the elephant was now officially the size of a skyscraper. 

Before El could decide how to proceed, Neal dropped his head back down and took three deliberate steps to the side, crouching down on the floor and sort of hiding himself beside the sofa. It looked strange but not awkward, if that made any sense at all, like it was something Neal did every day, something that was expected of him. It was almost as if the young man had been responding to a silent command.

The thought made El start. He *had* been responding to a silent command. She saw plenty of slaves at the events she planned and, unlike the ones Peter saw every day, these slaves were in normal situations, meaning she had a fairly good idea of how they usually behaved. 

Slaves stepped aside and kneeled like that all the time when their masters were carrying on conversations that didn’t involve them. An out of sight, out of mind thing, she supposed, a polite way of giving their masters space while still remaining within easy reach if called upon.

She and Peter had been talking as if Neal wasn’t there, so the man had followed his training and made himself scarce. He had no idea that they were simply struggling for a way to bring him up; for all he knew, they’d never talk to him at all. El had actually met slaves who knew nothing about their masters—not their full names, not what they did for a living, not what their address was or who their friends were or why eating peanuts made their faces swell up and required a trip to the ER. These slaves lived their lives like robots, never hearing a word from their masters that wasn’t a direct command. It was kind of disturbing.

El wondered idly if Neal had ever belonged to a master like that.

Peter was looking at the slave like he had lost his mind, so El squatted down next to the man, reaching out and gently touching his shoulder. He didn’t move at all, not even to glance up at her, and she gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze.

“It’s all right,” El said. “We weren’t ignoring you. We want to talk to you. Stand back up, okay?”

The young man obeyed immediately, climbing silently to his feet and moving back to Peter, standing a little closer to her husband than before, body tilted slightly in the man’s direction. Hm. Interesting.

“What the hell was that?” Peter questioned, looking puzzled.

“Never mind it,” El said, knowing that Neal was likely as confused by Peter’s lack of knowledge as Peter was by the slave’s actions. “So Peter, honey, all ‘welcome home’s aside… While I’m thrilled to finally meet the man behind the myth, I have to ask: What, exactly, is Neal Caffrey doing in our house?”

“You know who I am, ma’am?” Neal questioned, obviously surprised.

El smiled at him. “Oh, Mr. Caffrey, how could I not? My husband had a whole room dedicated to finding you!”

Neal glanced at Peter out of the corner of his eye, an almost quizzical look, before returning his gaze to El.

“I’m a slave, Mrs. Burke,” he said matter-of-factly. “There’s no need to speak to me like that. I guess I’m sort of a Caffrey? Maybe? But I’m definitely not a ‘mister.’”

“Is that roundabout permission to call you ‘Neal’?” El questioned in a teasing voice, though what she really wanted to do was wrap her arms around the skinny young man and squeeze away the fear hovering around him like storm clouds that got heavier every time Peter glanced his way. Yet Neal kept inching closer and closer to the man like he was some sort of safe haven. Very interesting, indeed.

“I’ll answer to anything you want, Mrs. Burke,” he said quietly before cocking his head to the side, a comically thoughtful look coming over his face. “Except ‘Petunia.’ I’ll take the whip before I’ll answer to ‘Petunia.’” The wide, careless grin was contradicted by the nervous energy radiating from his body and the poorly disguised fear in his eyes.

Peter gave a snort of laughter, rolling his eyes, and El giggled as well, though the duality of Neal’s attitude worried her. What had happened between him and Peter? Was it simply that her husband had been the one to catch him, or was there something more to it? She couldn’t imagine what it could be—if there was one thing she was sure of, it was that her husband would never hurt anyone, not even a slave. *Especially* not a slave.

On one of their earliest dates, a woman at the restaurant had thrown hot coffee in her slave’s face for some minor misbehavior. These things were unfortunately common, but Peter had become visibly upset. When El asked him about it later, all he would say was that he had joined the Bureau to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves, including those who didn’t have the right to try. 

It was an incredibly liberal statement, considering that a slave owner had every legal right to decide whether their property lived or died, but El had always thought it was a very noble thing to believe.

Peter reached out, placing a hand on Neal’s slightly hunched shoulder. “Neal is going to be staying with us for awhile. He claims he can help me catch the Dutchman, so I agreed to take his contract for a month to see whether or not he’s blowing smoke.”

“I’ve blown a lot of things, Master, but never smoke,” Neal said in an amused voice. The glint of fear in his eyes was gone, but his shoulders tensed at the words, like he was expecting a blow.

“Don’t be crude around my wife, Neal,” Peter replied, his tone one of fatherly annoyance more than anything else, but it was enough to bring back the poorly hidden fear, leaving the slave nodding rapidly as he eyed Peter.

“Sorry, Master. Sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be a prude, Peter,” El said, trying to put Neal at ease. “I am a big girl who can handle big girl jokes. I *am* over the drinking limit!”

“I wouldn’t know it, Mrs. Burke,” Neal said smoothly, flashing her a smile so big and bright that it could blind a person. The pictures of Neal seriously did him no justice at all. No wonder Peter had been incapable of getting his mind off of catching up to this man!

“Neal, please don’t call me Mrs. Burke,” El said. “It makes me feel like a grandma! In fact, if you call me Mrs. Burke, I may have to call you ‘Petunia.’ The name is Elizabeth, or El, if you prefer.”

Neal laughed, and it sounded real this time. “Okay, Ms. El.”

Casual, but still respectful. The Neal that Peter had described to her wouldn’t have bothered with titles, and he certainly wouldn’t have knelt at their feet on some silent command. From what little she’d seen tonight, El wasn’t so sure Peter understood the thief as well as he thought. Maybe her husband could anticipate Neal’s moves, but his motivations… That was another story.

In Peter’s eyes, Neal Caffrey was the ultimate big shot, believing himself to be the best there ever was, but it was obvious the slave in this room considered her husband the man of the hour. Even as Neal smiled at her with easy charm and endless grace, his attention was divided, his every action orchestrated around Peter’s reactions. 

El recognized the look in the slave’s eyes when he glanced Peter’s way. Just last week she’d seen it on the face of Macy and Jacob’s oldest companion slave, the one that belonged to their fifteen year old son, Michael. The slave had been crouched at his teenaged master’s feet, biting his lip to keep from crying out as the other boy, furious at having to miss baseball practice to attend “this stupid ass party,” kicked his slave randomly in the side every few minutes. And yet when given the chance to escape the abuse and go take the coats of arriving guests, the kid had acted like it was a death sentence, looking at his young master with the same all-consuming gaze that Neal had locked on Peter right now.

It wasn’t until a few hours later, when El had entered the guest bedroom to grab her cellphone from the jacket she’d stashed on the bed, that she realized *why* the slave had been so disturbed by the idea of leaving his bratty, pouting, asshole of a master’s feet. Being kicked in the side every now and then was a hell of a lot better than being stripped naked, forced onto all fours, and raped by a forty year old man.

The young man standing in their living room was not the rebel that her husband had described. If she was a betting woman, El would put down all her money that there wasn’t a rebellious bone in this slave’s body. Being cocky and outspoken didn’t make you a rebel, defying your master did. Now that Peter was the closest thing Neal had to a master, the slave was obviously struggling to meld their previous interactions and their new positions.

Peter was going to have to rethink his assumptions about Neal if this was going to work for even a month, starting with the idea that the young thief didn’t give a damn what El’s hubby said or did. That little snap about being crude in front of El had left the poor boy shaking in his boots. Well, shaking in his cheap prison issue shoes, anyway.

El still didn’t understand where the haze of fear surrounding Neal had originated from, though. It was one thing to be leery when a man you eluded and foiled and generally outsmarted for three years suddenly became your master; however, Neal positively stunk of terror, despite his obvious attempts to hide it behind a facade of charm, and it was most definitely directed toward her husband. Had the man heard some things about Peter that weren’t true while he was in prison?

“I tried to get him to call me ‘Peter,’” Peter said, breaking El out of her thoughts. “But he wouldn’t.” He sounded irritated. “Wouldn’t even call me ‘Agent Burke.’ Apparently I’m now ’Master,’ whether I like it or not.” He laughed, shaking his head. “I definitely never expected to have the great Neal Caffrey calling *me* ‘Master.’”

Neal dropped his eyes to the floor, fists clenching and cheeks reddening with embarrassment. Well, the parts of his cheeks that weren’t black and blue, anyway. It was obvious he thought Peter was making fun of him. “Forgive me, Master,” he snapped. “Sorry I didn’t meet your great expectations.”

The sarcasm in his tone could practically cut, and El didn’t miss the flicker of anger in Neal’s eyes. It was quickly replaced by fear, though, as he tensed, obviously expecting a blow. 

El had to admit it was a highly inappropriate way for a slave to respond to a free man, but it wasn’t the act itself that caused her brows to rise in disbelief. No, it was the fact that Neal—a slave—actually gave a damn about being teased. Embarrassment and anger over minor taunts was territory generally reserved for free men. Your average slave had much worse indignities to cry over than being mocked in ways that belonged in a junior high school locker room.

So *this* was the Neal Caffrey her husband had spent all that time babbling about. Too bad he seemed to come and go in a flash. Scared Neal was definitely back, and she’d take Smart-ass Neal over this cringing version any day.

All of this was missed entirely by Peter, of course, who was still grinning a little stupidly at her, totally unaware that Neal was trying to navigate what probably seemed like a minefield in his new master’s head.

Men.

El sighed, running a hand through her hair. It didn’t matter if they were free men or slaves or aliens from another planet, stick two males together and nothing would get done.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” El said, reaching out and tipping Neal’s chin up with her fingers. “From what I understand, he is your master now, right? So why shouldn’t you call him ‘Master’? No need to feel bad about showing some manners, even if that Tarzan I love over there doesn’t always appreciate them.” El smiled. “You’ll have to cut us a little slack; we’ve never had a slave before. I see them sometimes at my job, and you know as well as anyone that Peter works in the trade, but I haven’t had a slave in my home since I was a girl. And I don’t think Peter’s family ever had slaves, right, hon?”

Peter slowly shook his head, obviously not sure where this conversation was going or whether he was going to like it when it arrived. “Nope, we couldn’t afford one. Before SlaveMart got big, they were damn pricey.”

El gave Neal’s arm a squeeze. “Most of our knowledge about this stuff is second hand, based off of things we’ve seen or heard. So if something we say or does confuses you, feel free to speak up.”

Neal’s eyes flickered to Peter again, confirming that the man agreed with El’s assessment, then he tossed that big grin at her, shrugging his shoulders as best he could with his hands bound in front of his body.

“You can always order a user manual from SlaveMart for the bargain price of $5.99 plus shipping and handling. If you check the little box on the order form that says ‘first time slave owner,’ they’ll even send you an incredibly helpful pamphlet explaining all the important facts. Great tips, like how if you don’t feed your slave for more than thirty days then they might die or starvation. Oh, and my personal favorite: If you chop their balls off in your kitchen sink then they may not be good for sex work in the future.”

Peter chuckled. “Not feeding you for a month would sure clear a lot of paperwork off of my desk.”

El winced almost as much as Neal at the words, resisting the urge to reach out and smack her big dummy of a husband. It was obvious he was teasing, to himself and to El, but she was pretty sure Neal had taken the words at face value.

“That was a joke, Neal,” El said gently as Neal eyed Peter with a disturbed look on his face. “Wasn’t it, hon?”

“Of course it was,” Peter said, brow furrowing slightly. “You know I wouldn’t starve you.” He reached out, ruffling Neal’s hair in a friendly way. “Not even if it *would* make my life a lot easier.”

From the look on Neal’s face, the slave wasn’t convinced. At some point very soon they would have to sit down with the man and discuss their intentions, but El wanted a chance to speak to Peter alone first and get them on the same page when it came to what was going on in Neal’s head.

If Peter had any clue how badly he frightened Neal, he wouldn’t be half as crass around him. In fact, El was certain that he was going to be pretty upset, and maybe even hurt, when she revealed her suspicion that Neal saw him as a dangerous time bomb needing to be disarmed before the clock hit zero.

Not to mention the little talk they were going to have about agreeing to take slaves into their home without granting her even the smallest courtesy of a phone call.

“I can help make your life easier, Master,” Neal said, his voice a lot more casual and upbeat than his tense postured suggested. “It’s true that I wasn’t technically trained in cooking, cleaning, yard work, or CPR, but I’m an awfully good pretender, as you know.” He actually winked, and El felt herself smile brightly in response. The man’s charm was irresistible. “And I *was* very well trained in origami and parachuting, which obviously makes up for my lack of practical skills.”

Neal flashed another cocky smile, giving El a glimpse of the man he might have been if he’d never had a collar around his neck. The man he might still have a chance at being, with the right owners. The man that Peter saw.

“Origami, huh?” Peter said dryly. “That’s a serious skill there.”

“Hey, don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it, Master,” Neal protested, lips curling into a smirk. “You never know when you might find a use for a crane made out of newsprint, sir.”

Peter chuckled, and El let out a little laugh, giving the man’s shoulder another squeeze as she said, “Now that we’re up on your outstanding skill set, I think Neal here could use a shower. Don’t you think so, Peter?” She gave him a pointed look. “And dinner, of course. I bet you’re both hungry as hell.”

Neal glanced at Peter for direction, shoulders tensing when the man didn’t even look his way. El knew it was because her husband had no clue that Neal was looking to him for permission, but in Neal’s mind the man’s non-response might as well have been a big, giant NO.

“I’m fine, Ms. El,” Neal said at the exact moment Peter said, “Oh yeah, I’m starving.”

Her hubby glanced over at Neal, raising an eyebrow. “What, you ate already? I thought they pulled you off your shift to see me.”

“His shift? What were you contracted for, Neal?” El asked curiously, immediately regretting the question when a look of deep shame rolled over the man’s handsome features.

“I was a prison slave, Ms. El,” he said in a low voice, locking his big blue eyes to the floor once more.

“Yeah, isn’t that a laugh?” Peter said, seeming to find Neal’s obvious embarrassment amusing. El frowned. That wasn’t like her husband at all. “Caffrey ended up with a criminal contract at, get this, a *prison*,” Peter continued, actually chuckling. “Talk about irony. Real fitting, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Master,” Neal said in a forced tone that swung back and forth between shame and anger. He looked up, cheeks flaming as he met El’s eyes, apparently unaware that Peter’s question was rhetorical. “It is fitting. I deserved it.”

El’s breath caught slightly, what was left of her smile fading away at the naked pain that danced across the man’s face as he spat out those last words.

“I’m sure you didn’t, Neal,” she said softly. No one deserved to go through anything that put a look like that on their faces, not even Hitler himself.

Peter shook his head. “He committed a crime, El. He’s a conman at heart. Don’t let him scam you into believing he’s done no wrong. Facing the consequences of our actions is a part of life, as I’m sure Neal now understands.”

The small flash of anger she’d seen in Neal’s face and heard in his voice melted away, while the much more prevalent shame transformed into full on defeat. “He’s right, I deserved it,” Neal repeated again. It certainly wasn’t any easier to say the second time, not if the painful humiliation in his gaze was anything to judge by.

El had to fight the urge to smack her well-meaning husband. How could anyone be dense enough to miss how incredibly degrading Neal found those words? It was definitely time to steer this conversation elsewhere. She could add ‘accidentally trampling people’s souls’ to the list of things she and Peter needed to talk about later.

“You know what, Neal, how about you go ahead and eat, anyway?” El said, not believing for an instant that Neal was ‘fine.’ “You look a little skinny.” She smiled at Peter. “Why don’t you take him upstairs and show him where the shower is while I whip up something for you boys to munch on, okay, hon?”

Peter nodded, putting a hand on Neal’s upper back to guide him toward the stairs, fingers moving off to the side to give the man’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. There was something protective in the way he hovered over the younger man as they headed up the stairs, and it made El smile despite how badly their lines of communication were crossed. It would be okay. They had a woman on the job now.


	4. Whose Cheese Is It Anyway?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Neal makes plans to woo Peter, El gives Neal a towel, and Peter is shocked by the reality of prison.

“I can’t take my shirt off like this, Master,” Neal said quietly, eyes flickering from Peter to the floor and back to Peter again as he fumbled to remove his shoes with his hands still cuffed.

Peter sighed, and there was an edge of annoyance to it that made Neal cringe. This was his master’s territory. Everything here belonged to Peter. Well, also to Elizabeth, but mostly to Peter, at least in his mind.

Despite serving a mistress for years, Neal still had some sexist feelings when it came to owners. He had been trained to serve men, fear men, even worship men. Women hadn’t been part of his early training at all. Before Mistress, he’d never even been with a woman. He’d expected her to laugh when he admitted that he was technically a virgin, but she’d smiled sweetly at him and promised to teach him how to please her.

Elizabeth kind of reminded him of Mistress. Not in a sexual sense, of course—Neal didn’t have a death wish, thinking things like that about Peter’s wife—but in the way they smiled at him like he was a person. 

It was a nice feeling, and Neal wanted badly to embrace it, but he needed to tread lightly around El until he figured out his master’s rules regarding his wife. If he got too intimate with her too quickly, Peter might punish him or even send him back to the prison. It was obvious Peter felt very strongly for his wife.

“Okay, look, I’m going to take these things off so you can shower,” Peter said, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket, “but I’m going to be right here, so don’t even think about trying to dash out the window or anything like that.”

Neal gritted his teeth at the words, wishing the man would believe him already that disobedience was the *last* thing on his mind tonight. He did not want to go back to that fucking prison.

“I solemnly swear not to use my amazing Spiderman abilities for evil, Master,” he replied cheekily, trying his best to hide how Peter’s endless stream of threats was making him want to curl up in a ball and die.

“Good,” Peter said, opening the shackles and dumping them in the sink. “Okay, undress and get in the shower.”

Neal shucked off his shirt and hoodie, brow furrowing a little when Peter turned his back to him. Apparently his new master wasn’t going to watch him bathe, which probably meant he wasn’t interested in fucking Neal tonight. 

Even though pleasing the man sexually was basically the main component in convincing Peter he was worth keeping, Neal couldn’t help but be relieved. He wouldn’t be anywhere near healed tomorrow, but his ass wouldn’t be burning like it was now from having been fucked six times today with little care for his comfort.

Neal carefully folded his clothes, setting them in a neat pile by the sink, unsure if Peter would want him to put them back on, if he’d be left naked, or if Peter had some clothes for him to change into.

He glanced over at Peter again, watching the bigger man’s shoulders move slightly as he played some sort of game on his phone. Angry Birds, maybe? One of the guards, Marky, was addicted to that game, would play it all through his shift. Neal had liked Marky. The man never fucked him, and he’d given Neal bread in exchange for reprogramming defective registration chips he got from a checker at SlaveMart so he could resell them at pawn shops.

It didn’t actually require anything more than removing the battery, leaving it out for at least twenty minutes, then using a needle to press the tiny button that triggered a reset, but Neal hadn’t shared that secret, letting Marky think he was some big techie.

Truthfully, Neal’s work was a lot more difficult than resetting chips. Creating believable identities was an art form, literally, because while registration chips listed basic data, they also directed you to view the Certificate of Registration, the physical proof of ownership you received after purchasing a slave.

Each Certificate had at least three, up to an infinite, number of different watermarks that told a slave’s life story, the first three being the breeder, the trainer, and the trader and the rest signifying different aptitudes, past owners, and anything else you might want to know about your slave. Every watermark was listed in the federal directory, but they were not available to the public.

This way the federal government, being the only ones with access to the meanings of all the watermarks, could catch forge certificates when the information printed didn’t match the watermarks on the edges. While it wouldn’t be worth the effort to have a five hundred dollar fuckling from SlaveMart’s clearance section checked out, no one paid big bucks for a slave without having their papers verified.

It wasn't impossible to get your hands on a black market copy of the watermark lists, though you needed a new one every few months to keep up with changes, but the next dilemma came in faking them. Human beings didn’t scan the Certificates, computers did, so being even a centimeter off in your brush stroke could bring up an alert. Techies who could jailbreak chips were a dime a dozen, but an artist that could replicate perfect watermarks was worth his weight in platinum.

Neal had created over five hundred fake registrations before they caught him, many of which had more than twenty watermarks each. Peter knew about less than a quarter of them, and those weren’t even what he’d been able to nail Neal for.

A computerized melody rang out from Peter’s phone with the words ‘You win!’ and the man made a soft sound of satisfaction. Neal sighed, wishing the bastard would tell him what he wanted from his slave instead of leaving him hanging here with no clue how to please his new master. Was this some sort of punishment? Was he trying to mess with Neal’s head? Neal wasn’t sure.

Whatever Peter’s game was, it didn’t look like Neal was going to get any more instructions, so he stepped into the shower and reached out to turn on the cold water. Now the big question: was he allowed to use hot water? The cold spray was already making him shiver and pretty soon his limbs would start to feel numb, but he was on tenuous ground here and didn’t want to make assumptions. 

Surely he wouldn’t mind if Neal used a *little*, though…

Master Vincent had once left him in a hotel room as a gift to a friend. After the man finished with him, he’d told Neal to take a shower. Master Vincent always let him use hot water, being an extraordinarily generous master, but this man had been furious that Neal had taken such a liberty. As punishment, he’d turned the cold water off completely and made Neal stand under the burning flow until he was sobbing in a heap on the tile floor, skin red and blistered. Then the man fucked him again, scratching his nails across the raw skin, to make sure the lesson stuck.

On second thought, it was probably best to skip the hot water all together.

Neal picked up the soap and began to wash himself as quickly and efficiently as possible, not wanting to stand under the cold spray for a second longer than necessary.

Peter’s back was still turned toward him, and Neal wondered if it was his subtle way of stating that he was disgusted by Neal and his overused body. Neal looked down at himself, cataloguing the bruises and calculating in his head how long they would take to heal. 

One week, he decided, until he was pretty again. Then he could start working on his plan to con Peter Burke into believing that Neal Caffrey was the catch of a lifetime instead of an average grade fuckling whose only real qualities were a nice body, a handsome jawline, and a talent for cheap card tricks.

Neal had been telling the truth when he’d said he didn’t have any practical skills beyond basic household use. In fact, his real registration was pretty pitiful.

‘Male, 30 years old, blue eyes, brown hair, 6’1”, multi-sexual, suggested usage: sexual entertainment, youth training: pleasure/sex work, additional training: none, additional usage: fine arts, party tricks, visual enjoyment.’ He hadn’t checked it lately, being in prison and all, but he knew it was something along those lines. Nothing impressive, for sure.

Plus, since you had to be a certain age before being trained for sex work, six years of Neal’s training wasn’t even listed. He’d already been fully trained by the time he reached the ‘legal’ sex slave age of twelve. As for the shit Mozzie taught him, well, that wasn’t exactly the kind of thing you could list in your papers, and it definitely wouldn’t impress Peter.

Neal used bar soap to wash his hair since Peter hadn’t said he could use the shampoo, then reached out and turned off the water.

“Finished?” Peter asked as the spray sputtered out.

“Yeah, all done, Master,” Neal replied, still dripping in the shower, arms in their usual position behind his back. He knew Peter was trying to give him range of motion, but he secretly wished the man would just shackle his hands behind his back. Neal had stood with his hands clasped behind him his whole life, and holding his hands in front was as awkward to Neal as holding his hands behind his back would be to Peter. Yeah, the position was supposed to be a reminder of a slave’s bondage to their master, but mostly it was simply the way Neal was used to standing.

“Okay, then—whoa!” Peter halted in mid-turn, slapping a hand over his eyes and groaning. “Shit, Caffrey, flash me much? Put a damn towel on!”

Neal glanced over at the towel hanging from a rack next to him. "You want me to use your towels, Master?" he asked doubtfully, having never met anyone who shared their linens with their slaves. Especially not towels as nice and fluffy looking as these. Even hotels provided separate towels and bedding for slaves. Wouldn't want anybody to catch cooties, Neal guessed.

"Well, I don't want you to drip dry!" Peter retorted. It wasn't exactly an answer, but it was good enough for Neal to pull down the towel and quickly began to dry himself. He made a note to take it to Elizabeth later and at least let her know that Peter'd told him to use it so that she could throw it out if she wanted. Hell, maybe she'd give it to him since he'd already used it. 

Mistress had given him a very nice towel and, since he slept in her bed, his sheets had been nice, too. Which they should have been because he'd had to steal a solid gold set of bondage cuffs to pay for their silken luxury. Even the blanket in his cage had been very nice, real fluffy. Much better than the sandpaper that had passed for a blanket in his cage at the prison.

Neal missed Mistress' cage. He blinked back tears at the thought, turning his head to the side so that Peter couldn't see them, that is if he ever dared to uncover his eyes and risk having to see Neal's body. He would have to work hard to win Peter over, lure him in. Neal had no doubt that he could help the Bureau with their cases, but he wouldn't be living at the Bureau, he'd be living in Peter's house. There was no way that the Bureau would pay to put him at a boarding stable. Helping out at the office wasn't a good enough reason for keeping a slave you barely tolerated, much less wanted, around. He needed to prove to Peter that the goods could still get the job done, even if they'd taken a bit of a beating over the years.

"Okay, you can look now, Master," Neal said once he'd finished drying off and wrapped the towel around his waist.

Peter carefully spread his fingers, peeking through them suspiciously before dropping his hand with a sigh. "Okay, good." He picked up Neal's shirt, holding it out in disdain. "For a place that claims to spend $700 a month caring for each inmate, these clothes look like shit."

"I'm not an inmate, Master," Neal reminded him, doing his best not to roll his eyes. "I'm a slave. We get the clothes that are too worn out for the inmates to wear anymore. Hence all the holes and stains. I doubt housing a slave costs more than a hundred bucks a month, sir."

"I seriously doubt they could feed you for a month on a hundred dollars," Peter said, still looking at the shirt in disdain.

"The FDA laws don't apply to feeding slaves. You can feed slaves things you'd otherwise throw out, Master," Neal stated.

Peter made a face. "Oh, gee, that's lovely." He sighed, tossing the shirt back beside the sink. "I'll give you some money to go to the thrift store down the street in the morning. For now I'll lend you some sweats. They'll be a little big on your skinny rear, but it will have to do." He frowned, looking Neal up and down. "Seriously, buddy, we need to have a talk about what went down in that prison. Those are some *really* serious marks there."

Neal glanced down at the greenish bruises on his chest and ribs. They weren't all that bad, but he wasn't going to argue. If a few kicks in the side were what Peter considered *really* serious, he'd pretty much landed himself in the slave's version of Club Med, though he seriously doubted a powerful man like Peter would honestly let him off that easy if something went bad.

Peter led the way out of the bathroom and down the hall, stuffing the shackles in his pocket, and Neal followed silently, feeling a little steadier now that his hands were in their familiar position behind his back. He knew from experience that he could stand like this for hours without moving an inch. Master Vincent had liked to use him as decoration, like a sexier version of the guys at Buckingham Palace.

They entered what had to be the master bedroom, and Neal immediately decided that El had decorated it. The colors were soft and soothing and the bed stands held vases full of bright flowers. Neal liked it a lot, and not only because its effeminacy reminded him of Mistress. It appealed to him as a painter as well, and he wondered idly if Elizabeth dabbled herself.

"Okay, here you go," Peter said, pulling a pair of ugly grey sweatpants from a drawer. A blue t-shirt with a cartoon police badge arresting a kid with his hand stuck in a cookie jar followed, and he tossed them both onto the bed. "You put those on and—"

Any further instructions were cut off as Peter's phone gave a shrill ring. The man cursed as he looked down at the little screen, grimacing. "Dammit, it's Hughes. The prison must have rung him, the bastards." He looked up at Neal. "I gotta take this. You get dressed and go wait down with El." He glanced pointedly toward the large window overlooking their little yard. "Just remember, you run, I *will* find you. And you will be *very* sorry you did. Do you understand me, Caffrey?"

Neal's stomach turned at the look on Peter's face. "Yes, Master," he said, barely louder than a whisper, the shakiness making him blush. "I promises I be a good boy," he added in an obnoxiously babyish voice, trying to cover up his sudden rush of fear. You know, because the best way to handle a man who had every right to choke you to death where you stood was to piss him off.

Peter just rolled his eyes, however, and raised his phone to his ear. "This is Burke," he said, pointing at the pile of clothes on the bed as he walked out of the room, not bothering to shut the door. Once Neal was sure he was gone, he dropped the towel and pulled on Peter's sweatpants, tugging the drawstring tight so that they wouldn't fall down his narrow hips.

They were a nice metaphor, these pants belonging to Peter that engulfed him so. Too big and too rough, but they were all he had to protect him from the cold so he'd better make do and be grateful for what he got.

Neal's eyes drifted over to the window as he pulled the t-shirt with its silly cartoon over his head. It would be a cinch, that window. No lock on it, just your basic tug and pull, not even a storm window to remove. A one story drop was nothing to someone who had parachuted out of a plane with a four million dollar diamond encrusted collar in his fanny pack. He could be down the street and gone before Peter was off the phone.

He almost laughed aloud at the thought. Fantastic, he could make another great escape. And then do what? Mistress was gone, and if he ran from his new master, the full force of the FBI would be on his shoulders. He couldn't go to Mozzie or Alex or even dig into the small emergency fund that Master Vincent had left him before he'd disappeared. ANCIENTLYRE. NICE TRY NEAL. The words were the password to account set up under the name Tyler Niecan. 

Bringing any of them into it, even the elusive Vincent Adler, would just mean that the Feds would be after their heads, too. And when he was finally caught, he would likely be tortured until he begged for death as an example of what happens when a slave rebels twice in the same week. Hell, Peter might do it himself.

Forget it. Neal was a lot of things, but he wasn't a fool. He hadn't given up on searching for Mistress, but his only goal right now was to stay out of prison. He could worry about figuring out where she might have disappeared to after he got in good with Peter.

Fully dressed, albeit looking like a toddler in Peter's oversized garb, Neal picked up the towel and folded it neatly before heading into the hall. He paused at a door he guessed led to Peter's study, but couldn't hear anything but muffled voices. After a moment he sighed and made his way toward the stairs.

Elizabeth was in the kitchen, 'whipping something up' as promised, which apparently meant making grilled cheese sandwiches and microwavable French Fries. Neal came up beside her, setting the towel down on the kitchen counter.

The woman glanced over at him, flashing a bright smile. "Hello, Neal. You look much better. Did the shower feel nice?"

The cold shower itself had felt like hell, but the feeling of being clean was damn good so Neal said, "Yes, Ms. El," and laid a hand on the towel. "Master said I should use this towel, but I wanted to tell you in case you wanted to get rid of it."

El's eyebrows shot up at that and she glanced over at him for a second before returning her attention to the sandwich she was grilling. "I take it that owners don't usually share towels with their slaves?"

She sounded genuinely curious, which was nice. It was sort of freaking Neal out, the way Peter looked at him like he was crazy when he acted like a good slave. He knew that the couple had never owned slaves before, but he'd assumed that everyone had some basic understanding of things like etiquette and appropriateness. Apparently the Burkes really were starting from total scratch. Maybe getting them a user manual wasn't that silly of an idea after all.

"No, Ms. El," Neal said, running his fingers along the damp fabric. "A towel is usually one of the things a master gives his slave. Not that any of it is really the slave's property, of course," he added hurriedly, not wanting her to get the wrong idea. Though, truthfully, after awhile you did start to feel a certain level of possessiveness when it came to your personal items like your cage or blanket, but they were still your master's belongings. "But usually a slave is given basic grooming supplies, a towel, a blanket, and a cage. Also sheets if it has its own bed. And a collar or some other mark of ownership, obviously." Neal sincerely hoped the Burkes weren't the 'tattoo the face' sort. That was one fad he really wanted to steer clear of.

"Hm," Elizabeth said, looking interested but not shocked or anything. "Well, we'll get you all those things, Neal. Though I don't think you're going to need a cage, sweetie."

Neal tensed at that. A slave's cage was the closest thing it had to a sanctuary. It was a place where you were allowed to relax, to let your guard down and shuck some of the stress. Not having a cage was like being constantly on-call. It was a slave's job to be hyper aware of everything so that it could serve its mater well. A cage was the one place it could rest its mind.

"Or," El said as if continuing the thought, though Neal noticed that her eyes were flitting over his tense body. She was very perceptive this woman, much more so than Mistress. "I'm sure that we could find you a cage since that's what you're used to having." She nodded at the towel. "But how about you keep that, okay? We have five that all look the same. There's no reason that one can't be yours."

"Thank you," Neal murmured, fingers clenching on the fabric. It was his. Elizabeth had given him a towel. Peter's wife had given him a towel. That was a good sign, right? Proof that El wasn't totally opposed to his presence here?

"So, Neal," Elizabeth said casually as she flipped the sandwich she'd been cooking onto a plate. "You said that you were a prison slave. What does that mean?"

Neal's stomach turned at the question and he did his best to school his features into a calm mask. "It… It means I belonged to a prison, Ms. Elizabeth."

She shot him an amused look. "Well, I figured that. But what did you do?"

Neal's mind raced as he tried to decide what to say. He didn't want to lie to the woman who was essentially his mistress, but what if Peter didn't want her to know? He didn't seem like a man who brought his work home. And what if she didn't want him in her house anymore once she found out? 

Eventually the papers would come in the mail or Peter would decide to tell her and she'd know he was a fuckling. Being a prison whore on top of that? From what he'd gathered about her talk of working around slaves and Peter's short explanation in the car of her event business, Elizabeth probably spent a lot of time around high society types and, depending on the kind of people they were, her own clients might disdain her for having a fuckling, despite the fact that Neal knew damn well most of them did too. They just kept them locked away where no one else could see them and acted like they only banged slaves who were of higher education and usefulness. As if.

When Elizabeth found out, would she lock him away? The idea made Neal shiver but he forcibly reminded himself that sometimes people surprised you. Nick Halden's suggested usage had been companionship and office administration, but in the end Master Vincent had known who—and what—Neal was all along and apparently hadn't given a shit, because he'd never treated Neal-also-known-as-Nick like a fuckling. Of course, Master Vincent was also a con and a crook. 

And Mistress… she'd lost her social standing the moment she left her fiancé to have illicit rendezvous with Master Vincent's personal slave, so who cared if he was a fuckling on top of that? He was lucky Master Vincent had cared enough to leave Neal's contract to Mistress, despite the fact that Neal had been trying to run a con from the start.

"I, um, helped, uh," he paused, trying to come up with something, anything to describe what he'd done other than 'spread my legs and thought of England.' "I just helped keep things running smoothly, you know?" That was technically true. Fucking slaves *did* keep inmate violence down. "I deserved it," he added, the words still feeling thick on his tongue. He'd thought that if he said it often enough, it might hurt less, but it still stabbed him in the heart to know that a fair, kind, powerful man like Peter had decided that all Neal was good for was spreading his legs for murderers and rapists.

El picked up the sandwich plate, studying Neal for a long moment. "Okay, sweetie," she said finally, though Neal thought her smile looked a bit forced. "Is Peter coming down?"

"I think he's on the phone with the big man," Neal said. "I think maybe I got him in trouble." He shivered at the thought, and El put her hand gently on his arm.

"Don't worry, Neal. Peter can handle Reese."

Neal bit his lip, chewing on it nervously for a moment before saying, "I hope that I don't get him into trouble. I hope that *I* don't get into trouble." He hadn't really meant to say the last part aloud, but Elizabeth was looking at him sympathetically.

"Neal, will you answer a question for me?" she asked seriously.

A question? "Sure," Neal said with a shrug, "as long as it's not 'can I call you Petunia'. I'm holding my ground on that one."

El didn't laugh, probably not a good sign. "Do you have any control at all over where you are, Neal?"

What? "Uh…" Neal stalled, not exactly sure what the correct answer to that was. He knew the true answer, but the truth wasn't always what your masters wanted to hear, especially with questions like this. Nobody wants to know that you'd rather be anywhere else but with them, after all. "No, Ms. El," he said finally, deciding to let honesty reign for once. "I'm only a slave."

"Well, there you go," Elizabeth said with a sudden smile. "You're only here because Peter decided to bring you here, Neal. It's not your fault you're here. It isn't even within your power to decide where you go. So why would you get in trouble for being here? Like Peter said, we face the consequences of our own actions, and he was the one who brought you here."

Wow. Neal had to hold back a laugh. This woman's naïveté was endearing, it really was. "It wouldn't be my first time being punished for something I didn't have any control over." Or the second. Or the tenth. Or the hundredth. As a slave, it was a fairly common occurrence.

El sighed. "No, I suppose not. But that's not how things work in this house, Neal. You don't get punished for things other people do, even if they involve you, okay?"

Maybe in her world. Somehow Neal didn't think this house rule was Peter-approved, but there was no point in arguing, even if he wanted to. "Thanks, Ms.—"

"Hey, is that grilled cheese I smell?" Peter called out, appearing suddenly in the doorway to the kitchen. Neal relaxed a little at the wide grin on his face. Apparently the conversation hadn't gone badly enough to hinder Peter's joy at the sight of toasted bread and melted cheese.

"It is indeed," Ms. El said, putting two plates on the table and setting down the tray of sandwiches in between. "And those nasty, greasy fries you love so much. The heart attack waiting to happen?"

"Oh, you are an *angel*," Peter said, practically swooping in to kiss his wife. Neal's eyes widened slightly at the easy, familiar way they held one another. He'd never had a master who kissed his wife like that, as if she was the only thing in the world worth having. Of course, he'd never actually had a master who liked his wife, so maybe his experience was limited.

Still, this could be a hindrance to Neal's plans if he wasn't careful. Peter obviously had an abundance of emotional companionship, and no need for any extra. That meant that Neal would need to approach the man on a purely sexual basis. Surely when you loved a woman that much there were some more degrading desires that you didn't want to have to ask her to perform, right? Maybe? Possibly?

Neal wasn't sure how a free couple would act in regards to that kind of thing. Obviously he had never asked Mistress for anything at all in bed. In fact, he'd never asked anyone for anything in bed—wouldn't even know what to ask for—but if Peter didn't make the first move, Neal would have to be the one to do it and it wouldn't hurt to have an idea of what his new master *didn't* get from his wife so that Neal could take up the slack. What did free men not get from their wives? Maybe he could ask Alex? She wasn't exactly the healthy relationship queen, but she was a free woman who'd dated plenty of free guys. It was a place to start, anyway, and if he had to choose between her and Moz, she was definitely the winner.

Neal took a few steps backward away from the dinner table, hovering awkwardly near the refrigerator as he tried to decide if Peter wanted him to serve or disappear into a still and silent posture. Ms. El hadn't seemed very happy when he'd tried to duck out of their way in the living room, so Neal decided to take the middle ground, not hiding himself away but not approaching the table, either.

Peter dumped himself into one of the chairs, grabbing two sandwiches off the serving tray and pulling a fist full of fries from their bowl. El settled down at the end of the table, smiling in amusement as Peter practically shoveled fries into his mouth. Neal's stomach rumbled at the sight and he really hoped that there would actually be some left for him when Peter was done. That is, if they were planning for him to have the leftovers. El hadn't seemed to be preparing anything for him, but they might want him to make his own food.

Slaves generally had the joy of eating the highly processed, dehydrated crap that SlaveMart sold in large quantities. Talk about tasteless. Mistress had fed him real food, usually cereal for breakfast and sandwiches made out of cold cuts for lunch. Master Vincent had fed Neal his leftovers, but since he always ordered enough food for three, he essentially gave Neal the same rich, expensive meals he ate himself. 

Both Mistress and Master Vincent had even let him drink wine on occasion, never mind the law. But though Mistress and Master Vincent had been his favorite masters, they had not been his first and Neal had plenty of experience with the shit they marketed as slave food. But even slave food was better than what he'd gotten in prison. Instead of throwing away the food scraped off trays and out of dishes, they'd just dump the stuff in a big pile to give to the slaves in the evening. Disgusting.

"Hey, Neal, you watching your figure?" Peter asked through a mouth full of grilled cheese. "Stop smirking at us and come eat."

Neal frowned, feeling off balance again. It was practically becoming his normal state. "You want me to eat now?"

"No," Peter said, voice mildly sarcastic. "I want you to eat on Saturday at five. Food's on the table, come and get it before it's gone."

Neal took a step forward, then another, until he reached the table, then he hesitated, unsure what he should do.

"Have a sandwich, Neal," Elizabeth said, and Neal obeyed almost as glad to have clear instructions as he was to have food. He snatched the sandwich from the platter, eyeing Peter in case the man didn't like his move, then sank gratefully to his knees next to the table, already taking a bite. God, it had been so long since he'd eaten anything that wasn't dry, dirty, or moldy. He'd forgotten how fucking *amazing* cheese could taste.

"You know what, this is getting weird," Peter said, sounding distinctly annoyed, and Neal gritted his teeth to keep from snapping back that the only weird thing was his complete and total lack of knowledge when it came to slaves—real nice, considering that he worked in the federal unit that dealt with them. Seriously, it was like every move Neal made annoyed the man.

"What's that, Master?" he managed to reply in a fairly mild tone, wishing Peter would just shut up and let him eat his damn sandwich. Was that *so* much to ask for?

Peter scooted his chair back so he could better see Neal, crossing his arms over his chest as he stared down at him.

"Gee, I don't know, you acting like such a perfect, obedient slave, maybe? Give up the act, Caffrey. We both know that you don't give a rip about anything but how you can make your life a nicer place to be so, honestly, this just makes me suspicious. You think you're going to woo me into letting my guard down so you can take off?"

Neal looked back down at his sandwich, wishing desperately that he could simply ignore Peter and focus on eating. Unfortunately, that was in total opposition to his plan of winning the man over. Besides, if he tried then Peter might very well take his sandwich away entirely, and then where would he be? Tired and aching *and* hungry.

"Neal, why don't you stand up and talk to us, sweetie," El said in that relaxed, gentle way she had. "Peter, give him a little space."

Peter let out a sigh as he scooted his chair back up to the table and Neal climbed slowly to his feet, putting the hand that wasn't holding the sandwich behind his back, then, after a moment's pause, adding the hand with the sandwich less for etiquette's sake and more to keep his precious dinner off his new master's mind and avoid any grabs he might make for it.

"Neal, you'll have to excuse Peter over there. Remember, this is a new experience for us. How does it usually work, slaves eating meals?"

"El, it's Neal Caffrey, for God's sake," Peter said in an exasperated voice.

"Peter," Elizabeth said in a flat tone, "you know I love you, hon. But it's time to shut up now."

Neal choked back laughter as Peter's mouth dropped open then quickly transformed into an annoyed pout.

"Fine, fine," he muttered. "Just trying to help."

"So, Neal? Enlighten us."

Neal licked his lips, trying to figure out what to say. He didn't really want to share the fact that most owners fed their slaves tasteless crap, but if he lied and they did pick up a manual one of these days, he would be screwed. And, hey, even tasteless crap was better than going hungry.

"You can buy food at SlaveMart, usually a hundred dollars will get you about a month's supply if you feed your slave twice a day. Or, obviously, half that amount if you feed them once. I've, uh, never eaten at the same time as my master," Neal admitted, blushing slightly at the disbelieving look Peter was shooting him. Nothing like watching what little respect he'd managed to garner from the agent come tumbling down. "I served Mistress. Other masters I just watched, and I would be fed later. Master Vi—"

Neal cut off, not sure if Peter knew about Nick Halden and the former CEO of Adler Industries. He knew that Peter had spent a lot of time trying to prove that Adler Industries was involved in illegal slave trade, but he wasn't sure if he knew Neal had been a part of it.

"Another Master of mine would feed me his leftovers, either from his hand during dinner or by letting me have the plate afterward. Mistress bought me stuff to make sandwiches for myself after I'd picked up whatever food she wanted that night." He gave a dull sort of laugh. "I never really learned to cook beyond the basics, though I can do a pretty good breakfast."

El smiled at him. "Well, if you're interested in learning then I'd be more than happy to teach you, Neal."

"Thanks," he murmured, slowly pulling the sandwich out from behind his back. He stared at it for a long moment then forced a laugh as he tossed it back on the plate, even though he felt more like crying. "Usually masters don't give their slave the food they eat themselves. I'll eat later, Master." He took a deep breath, and faked a grin. "Wouldn't want to outgrow your pants. They're pretty tight," he joked as best he could manage with his mind screaming at him to grab the fucking sandwich like it was blood diamonds and run like hell.

"Neal… You can eat the sandwich," Peter said, his voice a little hesitant. Neal's eyes flickered over to the man, who was staring at him with troubled eyes. "And you can sit at the table, buddy. We want you at the table. How are we supposed to talk to you down there?"

Neal gave a huff of laughter at that. "You do realize that most slaves aren't purchased for their stunning conversational skills, right, sir?" Neal asked, trying to save a little dignity by not reaching for the sandwich like a starving man, even though a starving man was pretty much what he was.

"Yeah," Peter said, voice unreadable. "Yeah, I know that. But I think you can tell from my empty house that I'm not really part of the slave industry's target market. Sit down and eat the sandwich, Neal."

That was enough instruction for Neal. It was nice to have orders you were way more than willing to obey. Neal picked up the sandwich and placed it carefully on the plate across from Peter before slowly lowering himself down into the chair, pulse speeding up a bit. First the towel, now their furniture. Did the Burkes not even have *friends* who owned slaves? Slaves sat on the floor, not in chairs or on sofas, not unless they were doing something for their masters that required them to.

He sat there for a moment, shoulders tensed in case this really was a twisted game where Peter told him to do something then punished him for it, before relaxing enough to pick up the sandwich and take a careful bite, chewing it for as long as possible as he reveled in the taste of melted cheese and butter. He hadn't had butter in *forever.* Then he took another bite, then another, chewing each one for as long as possible.

Neal was halfway through the sandwich before he noticed that Peter had stopped eating and was just staring at him. Neal paused, suddenly worried that he'd done something wrong.

"What happened to your caveman cravings, Master?" Neal asked casually, smirking a little to hide his nervousness.

Peter didn't respond, just sat there with the same troubled look on his face. Finally he spoke. "I guess they didn't feed you real good in prison?"

"Uh, well, I wouldn't call the leftover inmate goop divine," Neal replied absently, returning to his little sandwich ritual of bite and chew and chew and chew. "I wish they would have fed us in the morning instead of at night, but you know how it goes. There was no place in the cages where you could hide anything, so you had to eat it all at night or lose it. Of course, you know I'm pretty tricky at hiding things, so I might have allegedly put some crackers away for the mornings every now and then."

"Wait, so you were serious about some people only feeding their slaves once a day? You only got fed once a day?" Peter sounded genuinely shocked and Neal had a sudden urge to laugh. How many times did he think they fed slaves with criminal contracts when even your average master didn't normally feed his slaves three times a day?

"They fed us at night," Neal repeated as he stuffed the last bite of sandwich into his mouth. God, that was good. He licked his fingers, not really giving a damn right now whether it seemed dignified or not. "Thank you, Master. Thanks, Ms. El."

"Here, have another one," Peter said, shoving the platter toward Neal. He licked his lips as he stared at the tempting hunk of bread and cheese, fighting over it in his mind. Finally he shook his head.

"Thanks for the offer, Master, but if I eat that, I'm gonna puke." Matter of fact, but the truth. It had been a long time since Neal had eaten anything this rich and having one meal a day had shrunk his stomach down to pretty much nothing. It he ate another sandwich, he really would vomit, and he didn't think that would be a very good start to his time in the Burkes' home.

"Right," El said softly, apparently understanding. "Well, as my hungry hubby can attest to, this is a three meal a day house—"

"At least," Peter interrupted, making his wife smile.

"At least. We'll make you something tomorrow morning." Elizabeth smiled at him and he returned it a little shakily.

"So, I think we're all pretty tired," Peter said, though his voice had a strange quiver to it that Neal didn't really understand. "Neal, I have some zip ties, I'm going to tie you to the guest room bed, okay?"

"Is that really necessary?" El questioned, shooting a troubled look Neal's way.

"It's fine, Ms. El," Neal said honestly. He hadn't spent a night free of restraint since he'd been with Mistress, and even she had put the cuff chained to the end of their bed on him sometimes. Not that he couldn't have picked it with two minutes and one of his tie pins, but the point was psychological. "I already told Master it's fine."

Peter grimaced a little. "Hughes would kill me if I didn't, El," he replied, sounding almost pained. "He's a freaking escape artist and he doesn't even have a tracker yet. If he ran off, I wouldn't be the only one whose ass was on the line. Of course, all I can lose is my job. Caffrey stands to lose a hell of a lot more."

"Which is why it's *fine,*" Neal said, a little annoyed at being talked about like he wasn't sitting right there. Never mind that being what free men usually did around slaves. Fucking Mozzie and his funky methods of training, messing with his head now that he had to play a good slave instead of a conman.

Elizabeth sighed then leaned over Neal, giving him a soft kiss on the temple. Wow. Apparently she was warming to him already. She already had a dog, but maybe if he played his cards right he could win over a spot as her pet as well. It was better than anything he was likely to get from Peter, who he'd be lucky to con into even thinking of him as a play toy, much less anything more intimate.

"Goodnight, Neal," she said, fingers brushing his cheek.

A warm feeling flooded through his chest as she smiled at him. The same soft, warm feeling he associated with Mistress. "Goodnight, Ms. El."


	5. The Wishing Widow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter reads SlaveMart's user manual, El chastises her hubby for making assumptions, and Neal meets Madam June.

'WELCOME TO SLAVEMART! High Quality, Low Cost Slaves for Every Need!'

Ha. ‘High mortality rate, low feeding costs’ defined this shit hole of a company better. One of these days Peter was going to manage to pin something on the dirty son of a bitch who owned this place.

For a company with so much money, their website sure was ugly. The words '10% off any starter package with purchase of a slave! (Some restrictions apply, not valid on Red Tag Slaves)' kept dancing across his computer screen over and over in an ever-moving banner. Yuck, and the garish yellow background of the site was awful. It looked like someone had squirted mustard all over his laptop.

He scrolled down the page quickly. Just being on the website of a corporation as immoral as SlaveMart was making him feel strangely dirty, like a teenaged boy checking out porn.

Wow, could this site have any more categories? There seemed to be an endless list of things to buy. House Slaves, Companion Slaves: Adult, Companion Slaves: Youth (Whipping Boys/Handmaidens), Garden Slaves, Para-Professional Slaves, Sex Slaves (Efflings), RED TAG SLAVES (Starting at $750!), Bindings, Feed, Cages, Markers/Collars, Replacement Chips, Furniture: Sex, Furniture: Punishment, Starter Packages…ah, here was what he was looking for, finally. Manuals.

Peter clicked on a cartoon image of a blue book with 'SLAVERY 101' written on it and the website changed from bright yellow to neon green. Wow, wasn't SlaveMart just a rainbow of colors? Peter scrolled down the page, frowning at the three to five day delivery time on the manuals. He could dig one out of Vice Collar storage by then. Didn't they have, like, a Kindle version?

Ah hah, there is was. Online Manual, 99 cents. Bingo. Peter quickly purchased it using the PayPal option, waiting impatiently as it downloaded. He wasn't sure how useful these things really were, but after the interesting evening he'd had with Neal tonight, he'd take what help he could get.

Twenty minutes. That's how long Neal had spent describing the pros and cons of all the ways Peter could zip tie him to the damn bed. Peter didn't care *how* effective it was, there would be no hog tying in his house, dammit.

When he couldn't take another second of Neal's graphic descriptions of bondage, Peter had finally overruled the younger man's protest that tying him spread eagle to the four bedposts was too easy to escape and done exactly that. Neal's limbs were pretty long, so it wouldn't be hugely uncomfortable. And, as he had reminded Neal, the slave wasn't going to *try* and escape, so who cared if it was possible. Right?

The truth was, he'd had a hard enough time just doing that. Neal had looked so damn helpless, lying there with his arms and legs all stretched out, tied tightly to the posts, and 'helpless' was not a word Peter associated with Neal Caffrey. 

It was depressing, though there was a dollop of guilty satisfaction on the side. For once, Peter was actually in control of the situation instead of three steps behind. But, honestly, Neal didn’t look right like that, and Peter wasn’t sure why the slave had taken it so well. If Peter had been in his place, he would have been furious, being tied to a fucking *bed.*

A cell was one thing, but a bed? Totally inappropriate. If Neal were a free man, he could have sued Peter for sexual harassment! It honestly hadn’t seemed to bother the boy, though. In fact, he seemed comfortable with it; the most comfortable he’d seemed since he stepped through their doorway.

Peter clicked open the auto email from Slave Mart to get his password, then went back to the site to type it in. He winced at the gaudy graphic that appeared. It was Sally Service, SlaveMart's cartoon mascot, standing there in a little French maid uniform with a heavy collar around her neck. At least places like Adler Industries and even Spartacus Lost LLC had a little class. SlaveMart was disgusting. They had, however, succeeded where other megacorps and smaller traders had failed: They'd brought slavery to the middle class.

When Peter was a kid, only rich people had slaves. But in the late 1970s, SlaveMart opened up. They set up the slave equivalent of baby farms, churning them out as fast as they could knock ‘em up, and they also started offering partial and shared contracts. You could buy a contract on, say, a house slave with the people next door and share the cost or you could buy a partial contract through SlaveMart and the slave would return to the corporation on the days it didn’t work for you.

They had also instigated No Questions Asked sell backs for slaves that didn't work out. They guaranteed that they would buy back a slave for 80% of the price you paid even if its warranty was up. They'd set up payment plans and hired top salesmen and, next thing anybody new, slaves were hotter with the middle class than minivans.

Peter wasn't totally sure which corporation or trader that Neal actually hailed from, wouldn't be sure until the prison sent over his paperwork, but SlaveMart was responsible for over fifty percent of slave sales, so he figured it was a good place to go for info in a pinch. He could check out the manuals of Adler and SL Limited and such later.

'Greetings, and thank you for shopping at SlaveMart!' read the first page. 'We offer high quality, low cost slaves for every usage!' Table of Contents: First Time Owners, Re-Registration, Understanding Usage Demographics, Basic Training Conventions, Slave Etiquette, The Basics of Obedience, Punishment and Denial, Feeding, Housing, Suggested Provisions… It went on and on, at least thirty different sections.

Might as well start at the beginning. Peter clicked 'First Time Owners' and the page changed, revealing a graphic of a happy young couple kissing in the sunset while a slave kneeled obediently at their feet.

'Buying your first slave may seem like a big commitment, but it marks the start of a new life for you and your family! Slaves are well worth the investment, as they will serve you faithfully for years to come. Just a few of the services your new slave can provide are house work, personal service, yard work, cooking, and sexual entertainment. Please tell us a little more about your slave so that we can better assist you in your fantastic decision to become a master!'

His fantastic decision. Ha. More like his desperate decision. God, this website was as bad as Carmax.

Peter sighed, clicking on 'Male,' then '30,' then 'White (Non-Hispanic). He paused at the drop down box listed 'Suggested Usage.' He still wasn't sure what Neal was, and he didn't want to wake him to ask, if Neal could actually manage to sleep in those horrible ties. Peter decided to leave it blank, moving down to 'Training.' He didn't really know that, either—Kate had kept Neal's registration close to her chest for some reason and, after his ownership was transferred to the DOJ, Peter had never taken the time to look.

Finally Peter just entered 'Basic' for training and clicked the Submit button. The website sprang to life, a picture of a white male slave in his mid twenties or thirties appearing at the top. How wonderfully interactive.

'Congratulations on your new slave!' Peter grimaced. God, it was like he'd just had a baby or something. 'As a first time owner, there's much to learn. Based upon the description of your new slave, we have generated a few basic suggestions regarding care and training as well as a few things to look out for. Please see the lists below.'

Well, at least the first of the lists was called 'Care Sheet'. Peter had been half afraid it would be 'Whipping the Skin Off a Slave's Back: A How-To.'

He clicked on it and scanned. Okay, apparently he needed to feed Neal between 500 and 2000 calories a day, because that wasn't a broad range or anything, let him use the sink to wash under his arms, not leave him in a cage under two feet tall for more than six hours, and, oh God, remember to remove anything inserted in his anus at least once a day for defecation.

Peter made a face. All right, moving on.

Suggested rewards for good behavior… SlaveSnacks(TM), unsupervised crate time, and extra bathroom privileges. Great, so if Neal was a good boy he could eat a tasteless wafer, sit in a metal cage by himself, and pee when he wanted to. Yeah, Peter was sure that was gonna keep Neal Caffrey in line. Right.

Okay, punishment. Whipping, flogging, beating, starvation, revoked bathroom privileges, large anal inserts, bondage, laxatives, and… waterboarding? Seriously? Okay, Peter could see how those would be more effective than the rewards, if he wanted to beat and humiliate the man.

Screw the first time owners section. Peter was a federal agent. He already knew how to torture people and, honestly, it was knowledge he'd rather forget. He sighed and backed up to the Table of Contents page.

Peter moved his mouse around in circles for a moment, then clicked down randomly, sending him off to a page entitled 'What to Expect From Your New Slave.' Peter gave a little huff of laughter. Somehow he didn't think that this was going to help him much, Neal Caffrey not being your average slave, but he scrolled down anyway.

'Congratulations on your purchase! Now that your slave has arrived at your home, you should start analyzing and correcting its behavior immediately. Your slave will be trained in basic commands, but further training will vary. All slaves will have some things in common, and we will highlight these here. First, you should expect submissive behavior from your slave. Dropped eyes, a lowered head, arms held behind the back, kneeling, and referring to you as 'Master' or 'Mistress' are all normal acts of obedience trained since birth. If you require more submission from your slave, be sure to communicate this as soon as possible so it will relate these actions to your household. Your slave will also be trained in the ten basic postures. (See 'Basic Training Conventions.') Some slaves may be trained in further postures and, if you are confused by the meaning of a posture, do not be afraid to ask. The slave is your property and is there to serve your will.'

Peter's lip twisted up in distaste at the generic way the manual talked about slaves, calling them 'its.' He idly clicked on 'Basic Training Conventions,' eyebrows shooting up when a series of diagrams appeared. The first one was the basic hands behind the back way that most slaves stood and was marked Basic Submission, Pose #1. The next was a kneeling position, marked Basic Submission, Pose #2. The third was the strange sort of off to the side squatting position Neal had gone into in the living room and was marked Still and Silent, Pose #1. 

Peter scrolled further down the page until one picture caught his eye. It was quite a ways down, with maybe thirty or forty diagrams before it, which Peter assumed meant that it wasn't common. But he'd seen it before, somewhere… Peter frowned, trying to connect the feeling of deja vu to reality. The pose was called Extreme Submission, Pose #7.

The boy in the image had his forehead on the ground and his arms stretched almost vertically above him, reaching up toward his master. The text beside the picture read, 'Traditionally known as the Plebeian's Plea, this is an extreme example of silent begging. Acknowledges superiority and ultimate power of the master and affirms slave's position as equal to the ground beneath his/her feet. Outstretched arms that reach but do not touch represent the need of the slave and its lack of ability to make connection on its own. Unless the master to steps forward, its arms cannot make contact with his/her body, an example of the slave's position of weakness. This is an unusual pose reserved for times of utter desperation. If you slave enters this pose, it would be advantageous to take pause and make certain that the slave is not in a state of fatality or malignant failure.'

Peter stared at the screen, eyes running across those lean, outstretched hands…

The prison. In the prison. That was where he'd seen this… Plebeian's Plea. When Neal begged Peter to take him home, he'd gotten down on his knees just like this. It hadn't clicked because Peter had seen it from above rather than the side like it was shown in the diagram. Neal had taken this pose, a pose whose description pretty much said to make sure you slave wasn't *dying.* What the hell?

Peter clutched the blanket in his hands, balling it into his fists as he continued to stare at the image, a sick feeling growing in his stomach. Why? Why had Neal taken this pose? Maybe it hadn't been this pose. Maybe there were other similar poses. Maybe it wasn't what it looked like.

No, that was bullshit. It had been this pose. Peter knew, because the look in Neal's eyes had matched it perfectly. Complete and utter desperation.

"Honey?" El said as she stepped out of the bathroom dressed in one of her silky nighties. "What are you looking at?"

Peter swallowed down the lump in his throat. "I… I was looking at the SlaveMart website… Their online user manual."

El's eyebrows went up. "Oh? You find anything interesting?"

"Utter desperation…" Peter shook his head, unable to take his eyes off the image of the deceptively elegant looking pose.

"What?" she asked as she climbed into bed, pulling the covers up over her legs as she glanced at the image on the screen.

"This pose… It means utter desperation." He looked over at his wife, brow furrowing. "Neal was doing this pose, at the prison."

El made a funny little face. "Yeah, well, I kind of wanted to talk to you about that, hon. I think… I think that maybe you and Neal might not be communicating as well as you could. I think there may have been some misunderstandings."

"What do you mean?" Peter asked, frowning.

She gave a soft shrug. "Maybe you need to take a step back and try and see him in a new light. I think you may have made some assumptions about him that aren't totally true."

"For God's sake, El," Peter groaned. "I chased him for three years! I know that boy better than he knows himself!"

"You know the thief," she corrected. "But do you really know the man? Or the slave, I should say?"

Peter snorted. "He's only a slave in name. That boy does whatever the hell he likes, everybody else be damned, *especially* whoever he's supposed to listen to."

El cocked her head to the side, turning her attention back to the computer. "Do you really think so, Peter? I mean, would a Neal like that have been down in that position, begging you for help?"

Peter's frown deepened. "There's something going on with that prison. Did you see those bruises around his neck? He wanted out of there bad, and I am going to get the bottom of why. But that doesn't change who he is."

"Peter, maybe he's not who you think he is."

"Is this because I didn't talk to you about it before I brought him home?" Peter questioned. "I really am sorry about that, El. You know, I've been wanting to solve this case so bad and nobody is as persuasive as Neal Caffrey, I'll tell you that. But I only promised one month. After that, if it's all gone to hell, he can go back to the prison."

"That's not it," El said, shaking her head. "Yes, you should have talked to me first, but, to tell the truth, I'm glad now that you didn't. That young man is in a lot of pain, and I want to help him. But if you'd asked me before I met him, I may not have felt the same." She gave him a quick kiss on his cheek. "You spend so much time on your cases, I may not have wanted to share you with someone else."

"But you want him to stay now?" Peter questioned, surprised. This wasn't actually how he'd expected this to go. In fact, he'd thought there would be a good chance he'd be sleeping on the couch downstairs tonight.

El smiled at him. "I just want to help him, Peter, and the first step toward that is convincing *you* that you need to approach this situation in a different way or it's going to go really bad, really fast."

"What do you mean?" he asked in confusion. "In what different way? Look, I'm telling you, hon, I *know* Neal Caffrey, everything from his favorite color to his shoe size. I know him as well as I know—"

"He's terrified of you, hon," El said abruptly.

Peter blinked. "Excuse me?"

She reached out and gave his hand a squeeze. "Okay, maybe terrified isn't the right word. Too negative… But he fears you, Peter. He respects you, too, and you also make him feel safe on some level, but he definitely fears you. Every time he glances your way, he's practically shaking."

"That's ridiculous," Peter replied, shaking his head. "I have *never* hurt him," he said fiercely, hand tightening around his wife's. "You know me better than that, El. I would never hurt him."

"You don't have to hurt him, Peter. He's a slave. I'm not trying to sound like a liberationist, but you know how slaves are treated most of the time. He's already been hurt, his whole life. He's always had someone controlling him, and the one part of his life that he was in charge of? You took it away, Peter."

Peter scowled. "I didn't take anything away! He was committing crimes, and I did my job!"

"I know, I know," El said soothingly, "and that was the right thing to do. I'm not saying what you did was wrong, I'm just trying to explain how Neal probably sees it. When you first started chasing him, he belonged to his mistress, right?"

Peter nodded. "That's right. Kate Moreau."

"But the things he did… Kate didn't ask him to do those things. He did them on his own. Of his own volition."

"True," Peter said, nodding. "In fact, he was very careful that none of his cons ever traced back to Kate."

"Then you come along and start chasing him. For three years he ran and you chased."

"That tends to be what cops and criminals do, hon," Peter said dryly.

El sighed and Peter had a feeling that she was getting a bit frustrated. "But he's not a normal criminal, Peter. He's a slave. So here he is, doing things a slave shouldn't do, and you're following one step behind intending to bring him in and punish him for those things."

"Yeah, okay, but I don't know how that translates into him being afraid of me," Peter said, trying to understand his wife's point. "Hell, he spent half his time baiting me! He may be a slave in a literal sense, but he went out of his way to make it clear that he was his own man."

"Or maybe," El said, bringing her other hand up to stroke his fingers, "he spent all that time baiting you so that he wouldn't have to think about the fact that he was doing the one thing he’s been trained since birth not to do."

Peter's brow furrowed. "Stealing Picassos and rewriting registration chips?"

El let out a soft laugh. "No, Peter. Running from his master."

"Kate didn't care where he was, I told you that," Peter said, a little exasperated.

"I'm not talking about Kate." El raised an eyebrow at him and Peter's mouth dropped open.

"Okay, wait, holdup," Peter said, shaking his head. "I am *not* Neal Caffrey's master." He paused. "Okay, well, I guess I am now, but you know what I mean. He was running from the law, not his goddamn master. His mistress was sitting at home waiting patiently for him to return!"

"Exactly. Kate was sitting at home waiting patiently for her blatantly disobedient slave to return so that she could love on him. You were out there in the real world, tracking him down with the threat of severe punishment once he was found and forced to own up to the things he'd done. Tell me, Peter? Who sounds more like a master to you? The girl who wants to play with his curls and give him kisses or the man who wants to catch him and punish him for being bad?"

Peter shook his head again, still not quite able to make this compute. "Are you trying to say that all these years Neal Caffrey has thought of me as his master? Because that's just ridiculous. He's never been anything but flat out disrespectful to me."

"Has he really?" El questioned, raising an eyebrow. "Think about it, Peter. He's mouthy, yes. He speaks when most slaves would be silent and likes to pull your leg. But has he ever been flat out rebellious toward you?"

Peter huffed. "I think running away is pretty damn rebellious in itself, wouldn't you say? And if he's so afraid of me, why does he spend so much of his time trying to annoy me?"

El gave a small shrug. "I'm not sure. Maybe he's testing the limits, seeing how far he can push before he steps over the line. Or maybe he's trying to keep you at a distance so that he won't have to deal with the way you make him feel. But he *is* afraid of you, Peter. I'm not saying that it's founded, at all, but I am saying that you need to be more careful what you say to him."

"Oh come on, El, don't you think this is a little far fetched?" Peter said, mind spinning as he tried to mesh the Neal that El was describing with the man Peter knew.

"I think that when talking about working as a prison slave, Neal said 'I deserved it' three times. And every time he said it, he looked liked someone was ripping his heart out."

Peter ran a hand through his hair in a nervous gesture. "Okay, so? I don't get it."

"I don't think Neal believes he deserved his sentence, Peter," El said softly. "I think that he knows that *you* think he deserved it and he's saying what he believes you want to hear, even though it hurts him badly to do so."

"Why is it so damn upsetting that he's had to face the consequences for his crimes?" Peter asked in frustration. "He was the one who committed them! Dealing with the results of your actions is a part of everyone's life, slave or not."

"What do prison slaves do, Peter?" El questioned. "I asked Neal, but he gave me some vague answer about helping the facility run smoothly."

Peter bit his lip before admitting, "I'm not really sure, El. I assume they clean the place or make the food or serve the staff or whatever. I don't really deal with governmentally owned slaves. That's a joint effort of the Department of Justice and the Department of Corrections. If government slaves act up, the DOJ contacts the local PD. It's too low level for the Feds. There are a thousand different jobs the DOJ sets up criminal contracts for, but I don't know what prison slaves in particular actually do, not off the top of my head. I'd have to look it up."

"Well, maybe that would be a good place to start in figuring out Neal. Heck, you don't even have to look it up. You can just ask him what prison slaves do. I mean, you were shocked that they only feed them once a day. Maybe something is going on that you don't know about."

"Maybe," Peter said, sighing. "I still have a hard time believing that Neal is afraid of me, though." He slammed a hand down on his thigh in frustration. "Dammit! I never wanted him to be afraid of me, El."

His wife leaned in against him. "Peter, I'm not saying he's afraid of you like a little kid is afraid of the dark or an old lady home alone is afraid of a burglar. I'm saying that he fears you because he sees you as the person with ultimate power over him and he doesn't know enough about you to understand that you're not the sort of man who abuses that kind of power. He may fear you, but he respects you, too, hon, and he likes you, as well. I can tell from the way he tries to stay close to you. I think, once you get to know one another better, that the fear will go away. But until it does, I just want you to be aware and remember to think before you make jokes or remarks that could be taken as a threat."

Peter frowned. "When did I say something that could be taken as a threat?"

"Well" El said slowly, "how about when you made a joke about how not feeding him for a month would get him out of your hair?"

Peter's mouth dropped open. "I was kidding! Who in their right mind would think I was serious?"

"No free person," El agreed. "But imagine hearing that from the person who decides whether or not you'll be allowed to eat. Especially when you've spent your life being fed table scraps and half-starved for no reason. We think of eating as a right, but to Neal it's a privilege that can be taken away on a whim."

Peter sat back, closing his eyes tiredly. "Okay, yeah, I can see how that could be disturbing." After a moment he opened them again, staring down plaintively at his wife. "I don't want Neal to be afraid of me," he said, sounding a little miserable.

"I know, hon," she said, "and he won't be for long, okay? We'll make sure of that. But for now, when you look at Neal, try and see more than the cocky front he puts up."

"He just seems so in control," Peter said, "and so proud. Egotistical, even. You really see a slave when you look at him, El?"

"I see a young man who wants to please," she said simply. "I don't think he's a rebel, and I don't think he's proud. I think he *wants* to be proud, wishes he could be proud… But I don't think he is proud," she said, squeezing Peter's hand again.

"What does that mean?" he questioned.

El shrugged. "He's amazingly intelligent, very skilled, and immensely talented, and I think he knows that, but when it gets down to the wire he still thinks of himself as a lesser person. I think he's stuck on the psychology some of the more hardcore trainers like to hammer into slaves' heads, about being a sort of half-animal instead of a human being. Because if he did think of himself in terms of being a person like you or me, then he wouldn't have asked me if I wanted to throw away a towel because he'd used it. I think the problem is that Neal is smart enough to know that he *should* be proud of himself, but can't quite manage it, which is why he wants to show off his skills. In hopes of impressing other people enough that he becomes proud of himself." She giggled. "The problem being that, with you, the whole thing backfires because the things that impress other people just piss you off."

Peter chuckled. "Well, that's certainly the truth. I guess that makes sense, though. I'm not sure I totally go for it—his pride seems pretty damn real to me—but it's an interesting theory. Definitely something to think about."

El nodded. "That's all I want you to do. I mean, this is just what I feel when I talk to him, okay? I could be wrong. You *have* known him for much longer. Sometimes it's good to have a fresh eye, though. Our pre-conceived notions make up a lot of what we believe. I just think until we figure it all out, you need to be a little more careful. I know that it would hurt you if you hurt him, and I don't want you hurt, hon."

"Okay, I'll be more careful," Peter promised. "Because I honestly don't want to hurt him. I never did. That's not who I am."

"I know, love," El said with a smile as she leaned over to turn off the bedside lamp. "Goodnight, sweetie."

"Goodnight, hon," Peter murmured, absently shutting his laptop as he mulled over El's words. He was a little disturbed by the idea that idea that a man as animated and outgoing as Neal Caffrey might really believe his place in life was eating dinner on the floor by his master's feet.

He'd always assumed that Neal didn't give a damn about things like that and only did them when it served his purpose, etiquette be damned. But it *had* been an assumption, hadn't it? He'd only chased Caffrey from crime scene to crime scene, he'd never sat down and walked through a normal day in his life. Hell, Peter never would have thought that the flirty young man waited until after Kate ate dinner to have his own out of some weird kind of respect. Or that calling his owner anything but 'Master' would make him look like he was about to be sick.

El's theory was strange, and somewhat disturbing, but it made some sense, particularly since many of the things Neal had done in the last twelve hours went distinctly against the person Peter had always thought of him as. It was worth contemplating, anyway, and he would definitely be more careful about what he said until he'd figured out for sure what was going on in that handsome head.

o o o

Neal stared up at the sign above the shop door nervously. All it said was 'THRIFT STORE' and there was no notice on the windows or the door itself that stated whether or not they permitted slaves to shop. It wasn't exactly high class looking, which Neal supposed came with being a resale shop, but it was probably owned by an individual and sometimes they got huffy about slaves wandering around in their shops without a master to watch over them.

"It's quite a lovely sign, isn't? I stop to stare at it myself every now and then."

Neal started at the teasing female voice, a smile automatically spreading across his face as he turned to look at her. It was an older lady, perhaps in her mid-sixties, early seventies, with skin the color of hot chocolate with a dab of milk. She looked elegant, refined even, dressed in an obviously expensive pant suit and wearing a string of what were definitely natural pearls around her neck, though it was hard to see much else around the enormous armful of garment bags she was carrying.

"Madam," he said, automatically slipping into his highest level of politesse, "please, give me the pleasure of carrying those things for you, ma'am." He reached out, and the woman gratefully began to hand over some of the bags.

"Thank you very much, young man, I appreciate it," she said, flashing him a much kinder smile than ladies of her class usually gifted to slaves. Of course, she might not know he was a slave, Neal realized. He wasn't wearing a collar yet and though his clothes were ill fitting, they didn't mark his place.

"No thanks is necessary, Madam," he said politely as he swung the last of the bags over his arm, leaving her only a hatbox. "I'm a slave, m'am."

The woman's smile didn't change, or even falter. "Yes, I had deciphered that from the bruises on your wrists, young man, but I believe in giving thanks where thanks is deserved."

Neal blushed slightly at this, ducking his head. "You're very kind, Madam."

"Please," she said, smile growing even wider as she pulled open the door to the thrift shop, holding it open for Neal, another small kindness that he wouldn't have expected from a woman of her stature. "Call me June."

"Thank you, Madam June," he said as he entered the shop. "I say again, you are very kind, m'am."

The inside of the shop was musky, the smell of old leather and dust permeating the room. There were racks of clothing along every wall and in small aisles down the middle. Neal looked around until he spotted a counter with a sign reading 'Donations Accepted Here' hanging over it. "I believe these go over here, Madam June."

"I would concur, young man," she said with a smile. "Tell me, what are you called, other than 'handsome charmer' that is?"

Neal laughed, dropping his eyes respectfully. "Well, Madam, handsome charmer *is* a popular nickname, but as of now my master calls me Neal Caffrey."

"Neal Caffrey," she repeated, cocking her head to the side "A handsome name for the handsome young slave."

Neal set the garment bags down on the counter. "Oh, Madam June, you make me blush."

The woman wagged her eyebrows. "That's what I like to hear from the gentlemen, Neal."

He chuckled. "Do you need any other assistance, Madam June?"

"I think I can probably take it from here," she said with a smile, setting a hand gently on the bags. "Tell me, Neal, what is your business at our lovely neighborhood thrift store?"

Neal glanced down at the oversized clothes, giving her a sheepish grin. "I have a new master, Madam, and he doesn't have any clothes for me. I don't think that fashion is exactly an interest of his."

June laughed. "I could guess that from your current wardrobe, my boy."

"Yes, Madam. In fact, he gave me twenty dollars, dropped me off in front of this store, and told me he'd be back in an hour. He said clothes shopping wasn't his thing." Neal shook his head.

"Not even a hint of how he wishes to dress you?" June questioned, looking amused.

"To be honest? I don't think he cares," Neal said. He leaned forward conspiratorially, as if he was sharing a secret. "The truth? Four years ago I saw Master in a suit, and when I saw him for the first time again two weeks ago, I swear he was wearing the same one. And that he's wearing it *again* today. I don't think he owns more than two suits."

June giggled. "Why, that's just ridiculous! Every gentleman should have a fine wardrobe."

"I agree," Neal said, smile fading a little as he pulled the wrinkled twenty out of his pocket. "To be honest, I'm not sure I know what to buy with this. My previous owners were a little more, um, generous when they dressed me."

"You know," June said, looking him up and down. "You look about the same size as my Byron."

"Your Byron, Madam?" Neal questioned.

"Yes, he was my personal slave for over thirty years. Unfortunately he passed away, and his things have been gathering dust in the closet." June leaned forward, unzipping the top garment bag. "He was quite the handsome charmer himself." She gave Neal a meaningful look. "In fact, when I first purchased him, my mother wanted to send him away, something about how I'd never marry with Byron around." She smiled again, but this time there was an touch of sadness to it. "It turns out she was right. But I never could see why I needed a man around when I had Byron."

Neal's eyes widened as the meaning behind her words became clear. It certainly explained a lot: the kindness, the teasing, the gentle spirit toward slaves. Madam June was what old society called a wishing widow, a woman who fell in love with her slave and chose him over the love of a free man. Neal had heard one or two tales of it, though he had never actually met such a woman. 

He supposed that you could have a wishing widower, as well, a man who falls in love with a female slave, but Neal had never heard even rumors of that happening. Now that slavery had progressed beyond the rich into the middle class, wishing widows were more of a fairy tale than anything else, albeit a somewhat sad one. But there was a certain beauty to it, Neal supposed, to be so sure of love that you would forsake all rules and social norms to pursue it.

"Oh my," Neal said in a low voice as June pulled a gorgeous suit from the bag. "Madam, is that a Devore?"

A bright smile spread across June's face. "It is indeed. Byron won it from Sy himself, in a poker game."

"Your slave played cards with Sy Devore?" Neal asked in disbelief.

June beamed at him. "Oh yes. My Byron was quite the man of the hour. He ran a casino off our rooftop, and we used to go dancing at the Lenox Lounge. A very special man."

"Oh really?" Neal said, a smile playing on his lips. "Once upon a time I was quite well known for my… special skills as well, Madam."

"Is that so?" she said. "I'm guessing you're referring to skills beyond your rather astounding charm?" She opened the hat box, revealing a stack of fedoras.

"Oh, indeed," Neal said, snatching up one of the hats. "Watch this." In one smooth movement he flipped the hat onto his head in an extravagant way, making sure the lady's eyes were on the motion while his other slipped a gold pocket mirror encrusted with small rubies from her purse. He then flipped the hat off, brought it down for an instant over the hand by his side, then flipped it onto his head again.

"Well, that *is* quite fancy," June said, looking amused.

Neal held up a finger. "Oh, but I'm not finished yet." He flipped the hat off one last time and held it out to her, along with the gold mirror inside. "I think you may have dropped this, Madam."

June burst into laughter. "Oh my, you are quite fantastic, young man. Your master is a lucky gentleman."

Neal's smile faded ever so slightly. "Unfortunately, this isn't really the sort of thing Master finds impressive," he said. "In fact, I'm fairly certain there'd be a beating waiting for me if he knew I was was doing things like this. I'm on a criminal contract," Neal admitted, "and my new master is a Fed."

"Oh goodness," June said, a worried look coming over her face. "What does he plan to do with you?"

Neal sighed. "That's a good question, Madam June. I'm not entirely sure yet. But whatever it is, it's better than what I was doing. *Anything* is better than what I was doing."

"Are you not worried he'll hurt you on a whim, Neal? I remember how law enforcement can be toward criminal slaves. My Byron served some time himself." June shook her head. "Of course, in those days, slaves weren't a dime a dozen, and a criminal contract mostly meant that you slept on the floor and picked up trash in the park during the daytime. I know there are some much worse contracts to be had now."

"Even if he does hurt me, he can't hurt me as badly as I was being hurt before, Madam. Not without hiring a dozen thugs, anyway. I was a prison slave," Neal said.

"Oh," June said in a very soft voice. "A old friend of Byron's who just finished a sentence at Riker's was telling about that program. It's horrific, truly. Back in the day there was still appreciation for well bred, well trained slaves. Ever since that wretched SlaveMart came into business, they've turned it into a horror show, made it so there are slaves out there with next to no value at all that people think they can do anything with. It's terrible."

"I agree, Madam," Neal said quietly, running a hand along the Devore's lapel.

June reached out, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. "Why don't you go try some of these on, my handsome charmer? I do think they're just about your size."

o o o

Peter sighed as he stepped through the thrift store's door, making the little bell jingle above. It had probably been foolish to leave Neal, completely collar free, all alone on the street corner. He knew that Hughes would kill him if he found out. But Peter had been up half the night with questions about Neal dancing in his head, and he needed some coffee. They had to be at the office by nine-thirty to meet with Hughes and get that collar around Neal's neck, so when it had come down to shopping with Neal or hitting the Starbucks down the block, well, the espresso had called. He just hoped to God that his slave hadn't run off to Vegas.

A few glances around the shop didn't do anything to calm Peter's nerves. There was no sign of Neal, just a disgruntled looking employee moving piles of clothes around and an older woman dressed in a conservative pantsuit standing by the donations counter with a small smile on her face.

"Dammit," Peter muttered, heading over to the shop employee. "Hey, have you seen a man, dark brown hair, blue eyes, kind of pale? Skinny, sort of?" He gestured vaguely toward his face. “Got a kind of ruggedly handsome jawline thing going on?" The employee shook her head and Peter made a frustrated sound.

"I take it you're looking for Neal, good sir?" a voice said from behind him and he turned, smiling tightly as the woman in the pantsuit.

"Yeah, actually, I am. You seen him?" Please, God, don't let him have run off.

"He's in the dressing room," she said with a smile. "A lovely young man. I had some old suits that belonged to my late slave, Byron, and after taking a look at the boy, I thought they would fit him quite well."

How had Peter known that Neal would somehow manage to finagle himself a suit? Well, at least he hadn't run off, and he did look good in a tie. Peter joined the woman in leaning against the counter, smiling down at the lady. "Well, that's very kind of you. My name's Peter Burke, by the way."

"I take it you're the lad's master?"

Peter cleared his throat, still not used to hearing that. "Uh, yeah, I am. Now. I just got him yesterday." Ugh. That made it sound like he'd bought him at an auction or something. Man, this whole thing was weird.

"I'm June Ellington. It's a pleasure to meet you." For a moment Peter thought he saw a glimpse of animosity on her face, but then it was gone, replaced by a bright smile, and he wasn't totally sure he'd seen it at all. What could some lady he'd never even met possibly have against him? "I've already invited young Neal, but since you are his master, it's only appropriate to ask you as well. Do you mind if Neal comes to my home for tea tomorrow evening?"

Peter's eyebrows shot up. This woman wanted to have Neal over for tea? Someone made friends fast. "Erm, well…" He scratched at the back of his neck, not sure how to phrase what he needed to say. "I don't know if he told you, m'am, but he's serving a criminal contract. He's a felon."

June's smile didn't waver for a second, not even a glimpse of surprise on her face. Not exactly what Peter had been expecting. "Oh, I know," she said suggestively, an amused look on her face. "So was my Byron."

Right. Of course he was. What was Neal, a crime magnet?

"So?" June said sweetly. "How about that tea?"

Peter rubbed his forehead tiredly, not sure what to say. He didn't want to keep Neal chained up in a closet or whatever, but he didn't know if it was a great idea for him to be running around with women who'd owned criminal slaves. But, at the same time, he seriously doubted this rather elderly lady had her finger in the pot anymore. Finally he nodded, letting out a sigh. "Yeah, I'll bring him by."

"Fantastic," June said. "Thank you so much, Mr. Burke. I get rather lonely sometimes and Neal is a wonderful conversationalist."

And they were back to the everybody loves Neal show. "Please, call me Peter."

"Peter, then."

"Well, Madam, what do you think?"

Peter looked up at the sound of Neal's voice, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the sight. Neal wasn't just wearing a suit, he was wearing what had to be the sleekest, most tailored suit that Peter had ever seen. He even had a freaking vest on, and a gold tie pin. Probably had goddamn diamond cufflinks beneath that jacket. And to top it all off, he was wearing a fedora cocked at a jaunty angle, his crowning glory.

"Oh, Neal, you look lovely," June said, moving forward to tug at the young man's lapels, straightening them. "Don't you think so, Peter?"

Peter didn't answer, too busy running his eyes up and down the sleek lines of Neal's body. He had to admit, the boy looked damn good in a suit.

"Well?" Neal said, a smart ass grin on his face. "What do you think?"

"You look like a cartoon," he said in a flat voice, shoving away a few more provocative thoughts. What was with him today?

Neal's smile faltered and Peter instantly felt bad. "It's classic rat pack, Master," he, flashing a sort of half grin. "Like you told me once, the classics never go out of style." He paused, smile fading. "But if you want to dress me in something else…" There was a hint of disappointment in his voice.

Peter made a face at the phrase 'dress me.' Neal was a person, not a goddamn doll. Peter didn't want to 'dress him.' "No, no wear whatever you want. You look good. Fancy as hell, but good."

Oh, there it was, the million watt smile was back, in all its cocky glory. "I know, Master."

Of course he knew. Cheeky bastard.

"Come on," Peter said gruffly. "Get your new toys and let's get to the office." He smiled at the woman. "It was nice to meet you, June."

"You, too, Peter. See you tomorrow."

"Farewell, Madam," Neal said, bending over to kiss June's cheeks. Both of them. Twice. Apparently someone wanted to be French when he grew up. Neal pulled away and gathered up an armful of garment bags, balancing a hatbox on top. "I looked forward to seeing you again, m'am."

With that final goodbye, Neal headed for the door, Peter trailing a few steps behind, trying not to eye the man. Wow, that suit really displayed his, uh, rear attributes. Peter winced. Okay, so not the place he needed to go. Though it really was a very, very nice view.

Damn Neal Caffrey and his amazing ability to make Peter blush.


	6. Shocked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter makes jokes that Neal takes seriously, Neal hands over his bank account, and they both get quite the (electric) shock.

"She seemed nice."

Peter put the words out there like an offering, hoping it would be enough to appease the pouting man beside him in the car, but Neal continued to sulk, staring out the window at the slowly passing downtown. He managed to look devilishly handsome even while administering the Silent Treatment, and it wasn't only the suit. 

Neal was slumped down low on the leather seat of the car, legs stretched out, managing to look both lanky and muscular at the same time. His silly fedora had tipped forward, pushing curls into his bright blue eyes, and his long, pale fingers were playing lightly with his silk purple tie. If it hadn't been for the light bruising on his lower cheek that even El’s heavy cover up hadn't been able to hide, he would have looked like he'd walked off the front page of Vogue.

Peter sighed as Neal pointedly shifted his weight so that one shoulder was sort of turned toward the older man. He and El had considered children in the past, though the idea had been vetoed for the moment due to their busy schedules, but Peter had expected at least a couple of years playing catch with a cute little kid before having to deal with the temperamental teen years.

"Look, I'm sorry I was rude about the clothes, okay?" Peter said, a little exasperated.

"You don't have to be sorry, *Master,*" Neal said, the extra emphasis on 'master' making it clear that he didn't give a shit if Peter was the king of the world. "I'll wear whatever you want me to. You're the boss, after all. Or the master, anyway."

Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Whine, whine, whine. "You look good, okay? I'm sorry I didn't say so right away. I was just worried. I don't want you to get wrapped up in those ‘something for nothing’ schemes again and this," he tipped his head toward Neal's outfit, "is where it starts. You walk into a thrift store and come out wearing a ten thousand dollar suit and a 14 karat gold tie pin. This is the kind of thing that got you in trouble, Neal. Hell, I've worked hard my whole life, and I don't wear suits like that." Not that he had a problem with his trusty Brooks Brothers, but the point was the same.

"Why not?" Neal replied, tossing him a friendly sort of smirk that left Peter unsure if it was a real question or a sassy retort. Neal was so damn hard to read. He really wished El was here to translate.

"Because I'm not supposed to," Peter said, deciding to take it as an actual question. "The kind of work I do doesn't equal that kind of luxury."

Neal turned big eyes toward Peter, pasting on his most genuine face. "But Master, you save *lives.* Don't you think that's the kind of work that deserves this kind of luxury?" He tipped his hat, and Peter rolled his eyes again.

"That's not how the world works, Neal," Peter said, tapping the steering wheel absently as he waited for the light to change. "You get certain things for doing certain things, and you sure as hell don't get something for nothing."

"Well, you don't have to worry about that with me, do you, Master?" Neal replied, a little too brightly. "I can't get something for nothing when I'm not even allowed to own something, can I? I mean, I don't actually own myself, you do, so really having me around means that if I get something for nothing it's yours, which means you're the one getting something for nothing, not me. So no worries!"

Peter shot him a look. "Your ability to twist logic to your own purposes astounds me."

"Admit it, I'm good." Neal flashed his teeth in a bright smile, apparently back to his usual condescending self. Hell, it was better than the pouting. "But I'm not twisting logic there, Master. I'm speaking the truth. I've never had anything that couldn't be taken away on my master's whim."

It made Peter uncomfortable, how easily Neal could say those words. No hint of bitterness or anger or even sadness. Just a statement of fact, like Neal was telling Peter his shoe size or the color of his eyes. It made Peter want to challenge it, if only to ease the strange feeling of distaste the words left in his mind.

"Oh yeah? Well, then, how about you call up your favorite bank in Switzerland and tell them that Mr. Nicholas Adler would like to make a million dollar transfer to one Peter Burke's debit account?" Neal stiffened and Peter hid a smirk. "Oh, you thought I didn't know about that one?"

"How did you find out about Master?" Neal questioned sharply, hand clenching on the armrest as he studied Peter with piercing eyes.

"About Master?" Peter said, genuinely curious. "Is that where the money came from? One of your 'buy me' scams? That's quite a bit of money for any slave."

Peter didn't miss how Neal relaxed minutely at the realization that Peter didn't know the origin of his cash cow account.

"Something like that," he said in a casual voice. "How did you know about the account, sir?"

"We're not completely inept you know, Caffrey," Peter said in an amused tone. "Remember Los Angeles?"

"I took out money to charter a private plane," Neal said, understanding dawning in his eyes. "You had me cornered."

Peter chuckled as he took another corner. "Actually, we had no idea where you were, just that you were in the city. We wanted to smoke you out, see if we could figure out how you were funding some of your more… extreme… cons. So we decided to slip rumors that we were about to leap on you and keep track of any transactions over a ten thousand dollars in the LA area. You were gone by the time we got there, but we were able to trace the cash back to a Nicholas Adlerson. Of course we couldn't pounce on the account—you know how the Swiss are about their banks—but we began monitoring transactions thinking you'd use it again, but you never did." He glanced over at the slave, raising an eyebrow. "There was enough cash in that account for you and 'Mistress' to live happily forever after, no further crimes needed. How come you didn't use it? Was it the thrill of the grift?"

"The money was for emergencies," Neal said in a quiet voice, dropping his eyes. "It wasn't meant to be spent on frivolous things."

Hm. That was interesting. "And you came by this money how, exactly?"

Neal shrugged his shoulders, cocky smile back on his face. "What can I say? Even my masters can't resist this grin"

Not really an answer. Not an answer at all, in fact, but Peter was a good enough detective not to push. Better to work it out slowly. Neal wasn't the kind of guy who would fold under pressure.

"So, is that mill gonna be in my account tomorrow?" Peter asked, amused at the way Neal's lip was sort of twitching. "Well?"

Neal's fingers had joined his lip, tapping nervously against the hand rest. "Slaves can't have bank accounts."

"Apparently they can in Switzerland," Peter said in a teasing tone as he took another turn. The shop where his probie, Diana, had delivered the collar to for a check up was only a few blocks away. Now came the joy of finding parking in New York City. There were times when Peter wished he took the bus, and parking in downtown was one of them. "You've drawn money from it; you can transfer." 

It was true, a tiny part of Peter enjoyed seeing Neal squirm. What could he say? Seeing the ever smooth man actually thrown off balance once and awhile made him smile.

Neal was staring straight ahead now, shoulders tight, jaw squared. He sat there in silence for a moment then turned his head to look at Peter, his expression carefully schooled into a cool mask. "What's your routing number?"

Peter blinked. "Excuse me?"

The younger man sighed like Peter was wasting his precious time. "Your routing number, Master. How am I supposed to transfer funds if I don't have a routing number?"

"Are you serious?" Peter said, letting out a disbelieving laugh. "Please. You wouldn't give pennies to a nun. You didn't even dip into your stash for Kate."

"I don't want to go back to prison," Neal said flatly, shoulders still tight. "The money is yours anyway, Master. Mistress didn't need it, I made sure of that, but if she had, it was hers. It's yours now. Take it. If the man it belonged to saw me now, I’m fairly certain he would regard this as an emergency anyway. I told you, Master, I *don't* want to go back to prison."

Peter pulled the Taurus up to a curb and shut off the engine, turning so that he could fully study Neal. "You would honestly give me your stash. Your emergency fund." Peter made sure to keep his tone low and even, though inside he was pretty much choking on the idea. It was so at odds to everything Peter knew about Neal.

"You know the account. Nicholas Adler. The password is ancientlyre. One word. Lyre like the instrument, not like the conman." Neal chuckled, a little sadly. "Or, as Master would have said… Nice try, Neal."

Nice try, Neal? What did that mean? Peter's mathematically inclined mind whirled and after a moment he gave a short laugh. "It's an anagram."

"Always knew you were a good agent," Neal said with a half-smile that looked anything but happy. "I told you, Master. I don't want to go to back."

"Why the anagram?" Peter questioned, as intrigued by that as he was suspicious about Neal suddenly opening his vaults to Peter. Not that Peter would take the money anyway—even if it were't immoral to begin with, God knew what criminal element it had spawned from—but the idea that Neal would actually hand his stash to Peter brought up a lot of questions, first and foremost being, did his willingness to give this up mean he had a *bigger* stash elsewhere? "Why would he tell you 'nice try'?"

"He didn't tell me," Neal replied with a shrug. "He told a slave named Nick. Though it really is amazing how much of Nick found its way into this version of Neal." He paused. “Or vice versa? After awhile it gets hard to keep track.”

Ah. One of his scams, then. Interesting. Peter would have to take a closer look at Nicholas Adler, and this Nick alias as well.

"You know I don't really want that money, Neal," Peter said, reaching out and putting a hand on the slave's shoulder.

"Why not?" Neal said lightly, though his eyes were still dark. "You could buy yourself some nicer suits." Without warning he leaned over, running a hand along Peter's lapel, down until it rested at the edge of his sports coat. 

The movement put Neal's hand a few inches from Peter's groin, and his face well within Peter's personal space. In fact, if Peter tipped forward just a half a foot or so his lips would be pressed against Neal. Though his mind was protesting, Peter's body seemed to think that was fantastic, a tingle running down his spine straight to his dick, and he gritted his teeth against the sensation. His cheeks reddened slightly and he pushed the boy back, pointedly straightening his jacket.

"Because it's not my money and I'm not a thief," Peter said shortly as he unbuckled his seatbelt. "But I think you know that. Now, come on. Let's get this collar on and get to the office. If we're not there before ten-thirty, Hughes is going to throw a fit."

"Yes, sir," Neal tossed back, apparently unaware of Peter's sudden inappropriate thoughts, thank God. "Let's do it."

o o o

Neal strode beside Peter down the block, something that felt strangely familiar, like they were a matched set. It was an odd idea considering that they were pretty much opposites. Peter was large and strong while Neal was lanky and limber. Peter was powerful and impressive while Neal was passive and submissive, well, when compared to the always-in-control Peter, anyway. Peter was free and Neal was not. Maybe it was a yin and yang thing, but it worked.

It was comfortable. *Neal* was comfortable, though he knew Moz would not approve, especially if he knew that Neal had basically given Peter free reign over his safety net of cash. The act itself had left a bitter taste in Neal's mouth, but situation as a whole had manifested a grudging respect that reminded Neal why being around his new master made him feel like he belonged on his knees.

Peter had known about an account that Neal hadn't even told Moz and Mistress about, and he hadn't been afraid to use it to put Neal on the spot. In that car today, Neal felt like a kid being called out by his teacher for cheating on a test. Peter had obviously been amused by Neal's distress, and Neal knew that should bother him. It would bother a free man, and the slap to his pride had irked him a little, but Neal had mostly felt relieved. 

All of Peter's reactions had been so confusing, but this one he understood. Peter was the master, he was in charge, and the idea that there might be something he *didn't* know, something that a slave like Neal had managed to hide from him, was ridiculous. Neal deserved to be laughed at for believing he could outsmart his owner.

Mozzie would kill him for thinking this way, but living the way Moz had taught him was so hard around a man like Peter, not to mention a bit terrifying. It would be so much easier to just slip into the roll of the good slave, believing that he would always be less. It was easy, because he felt like less. The last man who had looked at Neal with the kind of arrogant amusement Peter had shown today had certainly proven Neal to be the lesser man. Even Master Vincent's final farewell had been a snub meant to show Neal what a fool he was. But in the end, Master Vincent had also proven himself the better man, refusing to leave his prized possession hanging.

Just before Master Vincent disappeared, bringing the Alder Trade Corporation crashing down, he had subtly directed Neal to a Swiss account where he'd found over a million dollars of the money Master Vincent had swindled from the investors of Adler Trade lying in wait for him. Everyone else had been ruined, including Mistress, who had invested her money back in Adler Trade. 

The only thing that survived Master's scam other than the money he'd left Neal was the adjunct corporation he'd created to deal in ‘luxury slaves’ whose Trader's Suggested Retail Price were above thirty thousand dollars. Adler Industries, Master Vincent had called it, and signed it over to his ex-wife before taking off. Neal couldn't say for sure why Master had wanted Adler Industries to survive the Ponzi scheme he'd pulled with Adler Trade, but Master Vincent always had a reason for the things he did and Neal had no doubt that, someday, it would come into play.

Until now Neal had treated the money left to him as if it still belonged to Master Vincent, dipping into it only in times of extreme duress, but if Peter wanted the money, let him have it. Admittedly it bristled a little, but if a million dollars was what it took to 'buy' his not-quite-freedom, then Master Peter could take it. 

What would Neal use it for anyway? He seriously doubted Peter would allow him to shower himself with luxuries, ten thousand dollar thrift store suits aside, so why hold on to it? From the look on Peter's face when he'd seen Neal in Byron's old clothes, he figured he'd be lucky to get a cage tall enough that he could actually sit up in it. He hated being hunched over in cages, but it wasn't the worst thing he'd faced, by far, and it seemed like Peter was planning to feed him, at least when Elizabeth was around. Neal would have to wait and see what the household would be like when she was away. 'Never take anything for granted' was a lesson Neal had learned very, very young.

Peter had claimed, of course, that he didn't plan to put his fingers into Neal's pot, but Neal wasn't a fool. There was a reason he hadn't mentioned the account to either Mozzie or Mistress, and not just because he could earn them money in other ways. As much as Neal cared for Moz and Mistress, he didn't trust them to understand that the definition of 'emergency' was *not* 'my car broke down' or 'I *have* to have a new dress for New Year's Eve' or 'the Russian surplus store was having a sale.' 

So instead Neal had let them each in on one of the smaller accounts he'd built up through his cons, one with fifteen thousand dollars for his innocent Mistress and one with fifty thousand for the more world-weary and paranoid Mozzie. Neither had ever suspected that he was keeping a fortune from them. But hey, it wasn't lying, really. He was simply… bending the truth.

A million dollars was way too much for anyone to resist, even a man like Peter. Oh, the money wouldn't just disappear one day, that might knock Neal's new master off his pedestal of morality, but it would begin to trickle out, slowly at first, then faster and faster as Master Peter got a taste of the high life. Then, one day, it would be gone. But if that was what it took to win Peter over, so be it. Neal did not want to be on the bad side of a master like Peter.

"Okay, I guess this is it?" Peter said as they came to a halt in front of a small, run down looking shop. The sign had probably once read 'SLAVE ACCESSORIES, PAWN AND REPAIR', but thanks to some artistic genius with a paint can, it now read 'SLAVE ASS HOLIES, PAWN AND REPAIR.'

"Wow," Neal said, glancing over at Peter in amusement. "Good to know you're taking me someplace nice."

Peter made a face. "Don't blame me. My probationary officer dropped it off. It was the only place she could find that promised to get it done by this morning."

"Maybe you should pull your gun," Neal replied in a helpful voice. "To scare the muggers away."

"Shut up," Peter said, reaching out and pulling open the door. "This won't take long." He stepped through the door and Neal followed, almost running into the man when he came to a sudden stop.

"Master?" Neal said as he stepped around Peter, brow furrowing a little when he saw the man's face. He looked like he'd just walked on someone slaughtering kittens. "Are you okay?" Neal glanced around the room, trying to figure out what had caused the disturbed, disgusted look painted on Peter's face. 

Nothing really stood out. It was your usual cheap ass slave accessories store, with heavy shelves filled with used and refurbished collars, trackers, ankle cuffs, and GPS integrated shackles lining one wall and a mess of different punishment devices along the other. The punishment devices ranged from old fashioned to new fangled: leather whips, floggers, and paddles on one side and tasers, ball shockers, and tech savvy versions of branding irons on the other. It didn't exactly fill Neal with delight, but it wasn't worthy of the horrified look Peter was sporting. Maybe it was the sex furniture? Neal doubted Peter had ever shopped for fucklings, so he may have never seen a spanking bench or a fucking machine outside of an FBI raid.

"Master?" Neal said again, reaching out and laying a hand on Peter's arm. He jerked and Neal flinched away as his face went from disgusted to angry.

"This is crazy. I cannot believe I'm here. I cannot believe I'm here!" Peter emphasized his point by clenching Neal's shoulder with his hand, making the slave stiffen. Half an hour ago, he'd been trying to get a head start on his bedroom plans by kissing Peter in the car, only to be shoved back, and now he'd do pretty much anything to be several feet away. It was funny how quickly volatile masters could make you go from one end of the spectrum to the other.

"What's wrong with being here?" Neal asked carefully, dropping his eyes to the floor submissively as Peter continued to scowl.

"This place… These things. This is the stuff I work against!"

Neal risked looking up to take another look around the room, then dropped his eyes again. "Master, there's nothing illegal here. Maybe a little extreme, but not illegal."

Peter shook his head, looking a little ill. "I am not one of those bastards who uses slavery as an excuse to hurt innocent people."

Too bad he didn't feel the same way about the not-so-innocent, then maybe Neal's ass wouldn't feel like it was on fire right now. 

"Everybody knows that, sir," Neal said truthfully. "Look, you're helping me out. I'm grateful. I'd much rather be in this trash heap of a store than back in the prison." He'd rather be *anywhere* than back in the prison.

Peter took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "I know. I just…" He shook his head and headed toward the counter. "Never mind it, let's get this over with."

Neal nodded, following his master through the maze of sex furniture and cages dumped haphazardly around the room. There was no one at the counter, though it sported the classic pawn shop look of a TV monitor with streaming video, but there was a bell that Peter rang about a thousand times. Neal was about to throw the thing across the room when a greasy, oversized man wandered out of the back, an annoyed look on his face.

"I hear ya, I hear ya," he said, grabbing the little bell and moving it out of Peter's reach. "God, calm your titties. How can I help ya?"

Peter reached into his pocket, pulling out his badge. Neal wasn't sure why he was pulling out his badge, but it seemed to make the man feel good, so more power to him. "Agent Peter Burke. I'm here to pick up a collar."

The greasy man nodded, running a hand through his equally greasy hair. There was even grease under his fingernails. "Oh yeah, the Will Bender, latest model. A great collar. GPS is awesome, and it looks pretty snazzy too. I've got it reprogrammed for the radius the lady gave me, just got to grab some tools and we can size it. Is your slave comin' in?"

"This is the slave," Peter said, gesturing toward Neal, and the man's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Wow, you dress him up fancy. Give me ten minutes and I'll have it out here ready to size, okay? The name's Edgar by the way."

"Nice to meet you," Peter replied, the words obviously a lie. "Please, make it as fast as possible, okay? I have places to be."

"Yes, sir," Edgar replied, tipping an invisible hat at Peter before disappearing into the back room.

"Well, he looks like a winner," Neal said dryly, grinning when Peter gave a short laugh.

"Oh yeah. One to take home to meet the family." He glanced around, shaking his head. "This store is sickening."

"Hey, it's not all bad, sir," Neal replied, moving over toward one of the cages. "Look, this one's nice," he said, kneeling down to look. He ran his fingers across the black painted bars. "See how one side is a metal plate? That's good to lean against. Bars dig into your back. It's tall enough for a man to sit up in without bowing his head or hunching his back. In fact, there would probably be a couple inches of space. It's long enough to lay on your side if you curl up your legs and wide enough to lay on your back if you pull up your knees. The door is one of the ends, so you can crawl in without having to duck your head down through an opening, and it has a trust-lock system."

"What does that mean?" Peter questioned, still not looking particularly pleased with their surroundings, but not so obviously upset.

"It means that it can lock in two ways," Neal explained, fingering the lock in question. "You can hard lock it, where you need the key to open it no matter what, or you can trust lock it, which means that the slave can pull this lever here and it will open. It's a safety lock, in case there's a fire or something. The idea being that, if you trust your slave, you can use the safety lock because you know they'll only open it in an emergency. Or, if you don't trust your slave, you can hard lock it."

Peter knelt down next to him, inspecting the lock with interest. "But, come on… Even a trustworthy slave would open the lock when their master's not around, wouldn't they? Nobody would sit cramped up in a damn cage when they could get out."

"I would," Neal said with a shrug. "It's nice to have a cage, a place to go back to where you're not expected to do anything but sit." He reached out, turning the price tag tied to one of the bars. "Four hundred dollars. Not bad. This really is a nice cage."

"It can't be more than three and a half feet tall," Peter said doubtfully, "and maybe four feet long. How is that nice?"

Neal turned, pointing to a cage a few feet away. "Those are the kind they have at the prison." It was heavy steel with thick bars all around, definitely no place to lean comfortably against, and it was a little under three feet tall meaning you were forced to either slump over with your head lowered or lay down. It was about four feet long, but narrow, maybe a foot and a half in width. He grinned at the look on Peter's face. "And you thought an eight by ten cell was bad."

"Shit," Peter said, eyes wide. "That's horrible."

"It wasn't so bad," Neal said softly, not about to forget how much he'd missed his little cage after they'd started tying him to the bed. "Nobody else can fit in. It's safe."

"I wouldn't even be able to fit in that thing," Peter said, shaking his head.

"Yes you would," Neal said confidently. "It's not *that* small, Master. You could make yourself fit. But you're a big guy. You would get a bigger cage. Not a lot, but big enough that it wouldn't hurt." Neal returned his attention to the larger cage, stroking it almost lovingly. "Can I ask you a question, sir?"

"Feel free," Peter said, moving over to look at the price tag on the smaller cage. "Seventy-five bucks, huh? I guess smaller means economical. Like a perverted Smart Car." He shook his head again. "God."

"Master… Are you… I mean, am I…" Neal cleared his throat. There was really no good way to ask this, especially since Peter had such varied reactions when it came to this whole situation, but he needed to know. "What do I need to do to earn, you know," he gestured vaguely toward the cage, "extra stuff?

"What?" Peter said, looking back over at Neal in confusion. "What do you mean, extra stuff?"

Neal shrugged. "Things besides food and water. Cage, pillows, blankets," he touched his tie, "not clothes, I guess. Ms. El already gave me a towel. Other stuff, non-necessities. Most masters have some sort of system so their slaves can earn things. Like maybe in a few months I could get a nice cage? Maybe not as expensive as this one, but better than that one?" He nodded toward the cage Peter had been inspecting. "I mean, if you keep me, that is."

Peter stared at Neal like he'd grown a second head. "A cage? You think I'm going to get you a *cage*?"

Neal flinched at the disgusted edge to Peter's voice. "Sorry," he murmured, standing up quickly and backing away from the cage. "It was a stupid question," Neal added, though he was a little busy calculating what Peter would be doing with Neal if he didn't buy him a cage. 

Would he be strapping Neal down? The idea made him shudder a little. Before his ten days of hell strapped down in the fuck room, Neal hadn't minded straps so much. The nice ones held you down but had enough give that you weren't too uncomfortable. But now… It made him feel ill to even imagine that last strap being secured, effectively silencing him and locking his head in place in one fell swoop. An ankle chain? Neal doubted Peter would trust him with anything as easy to pick as an ankle chain. A closet with a deadbolt, maybe? Low tech, but easy and not uncomfortable. Dark, though, dark enough that, after awhile, you weren't sure if you'd been in there hours or days. 

The possibilities were limited only by a master's creativity.

"You *want* a cage?" Peter asked, reading the look on Neal's face.

Neal shrugged. "I like my cage." It was the truth. When he'd first met Mozzie, the man had given him a bed, but Neal hadn't been able to sleep, his mind unwilling to shut off. Beds weren't for sleeping in, not by yourself anyway. They were for other things, things that did *not* involve a good night's rest. Neal had started sleeping *under* the bed, the closeness of it making him feel safe and secure. After a few weeks of this, Mozzie had finally told him to go out and get a cage if it was that big of a deal. Neal had been embarrassed by the obvious distaste in Moz's voice, but not embarrassed enough to stop him from getting one.

Peter stared down at the cage, several emotions warring on his face. "I'm not comfortable with the idea of keeping people in cages."

Somehow Neal didn't think spouting off 'but I'm not a person' was going to help his case. "It's not such a big deal, Master. It's like a bed, you know?" He paused, looking up at Peter. "If you're not getting me a cage… What are you going to do with me?" It wasn't Neal's place to ask, wasn't any of his business at all, but with the memories of dozens of straps haunting his mind, he couldn't help himself.

"I was going for the guest bedroom route myself," Peter said, definitely not enjoying this line of conversation. "You know, bed, dresser, connecting half bath?"

"Don't you think your boss is going to want me locked up?" Neal questioned, raising an eyebrow.

Peter shrugged. "Well, if this collar is as good as you claim, it's not going to matter is it?"

"It's a damn good collar alright," came Edgar's deep voice as he wound his way through the maze of cages toward them, the two connection pieces of the collar in hand and a tool belt on his waist. "The latest in the Will Bender line. Amazing what it can do. We'll try it on him. Your slave will need to ditch the shirt and tie for us to fit it right, though."

Peter cleared his throat, glancing in Neal's direction. "Okay. Neal you want to, uh, take off your shirt?" Peter was obviously uncomfortable with giving the order, his cheeks turning slightly pink at the words. Whether that was a good or bad thing, Neal wasn't sure. It could mean he wanted to see Neal shirtless but didn't want to have to say so, or it could flat out mean that he was embarrassed at *having* to see Neal shirtless. Neal hadn't met many masters who weren't interested in seeing him shirtless, but Peter was different. Peter knew what kind of slave Neal was.

Neal shrugged his coat off, handing it over to Peter, then dropped his tie on top of one of the cages. He glanced over at Peter as he began to slowly unbutton his shirt, hoping for some sign of interest. Instead he got a horrified look.

"Oh my God, Neal… The bruises…" Peter looked shocked, though Neal wasn't sure why. Yeah, his chest was bruised, dark lines bisecting his chest where the straps had pressed into him, but they were already fading. It wasn't that bad.

"Not that it's any of my business what you do with your slave," Edgar said, cocking his head to the side as he inspected the marks, "but you may not want to tie him up so tight. From the bruising I'd say his breathing is pretty restricted. Take a look next time you strap him in. If his chest can't fully expand without the straps pressing down into the flesh, it's probably a little tight."

"I don't tie him up," Peter snapped, a deep frown forming on his face. "It wasn't me. Is that what those lines are? Some kind of strap?"

"The guards… improved… on the basic strap system, sir," Neal explained. "And by 'improved' I mean used triple the straps and pulled them as tight as they physically could."

Peter's face reddened again, but this time it was obviously from anger. "When I get ahold of that warden…" He shook his head. "Never mind it. Could we move this along, please?"

"Yeah, sure," Edgar said, stepping well into Neal's personal space. Not that a slave really had personal space. He set the metal pieces of the collar down with a clank and reached out, wrapping both his hands around Neal's neck. Neal couldn't help but flinch, then forced himself to close his eyes and take slow, calming breaths. It was okay. The man wasn't going to strangle him. Neal was pretty sure that was something Peter would want to save for himself, if his previous professions of wanting to ring Neal's neck were anything to go by.

A hand came down on Neal's shoulder and his eyes flew open. Peter squeezed his shoulder, giving him a comforting smile.

"Okay, let's see here…" Edgar picked up half of the collar and used some sort of lever to slide back a metal section. "Okay, this should be a good size. I'm going to put it on him now, okay?"

Peter nodded and Edgar reached around Neal's neck, settling the first piece in place then brought the other one up, bringing them together with a clicking sound.

"There we are, a perfect fit," Edgar said, sounding pleased. "Now, let's test it out."

Great, the part Neal had been dreading. Hopefully Peter wouldn't decide the thing needed to be tested at the highest setting.

"Okay, here's the remote," Edgar said, pulling a slim black device about the size of a smartphone out of his belt. "It has a wireless connection so that you can connect to it and set your phone up as a secondary remote. Let me check the feed, and then I'll show you how to set the GPS radius."

"Okay," Peter said, giving the go ahead, but he didn't take his hand off Neal's shoulder. Neal glanced over at him pointedly, but he seemed oblivious.

"You need to take your hand off his shoulder," Edgar after a moment, looking at Peter strangely.

Peter's brow furrowed. "Why?" he asked, voice sounding surprisingly protective. Huh. What was that about?

"He needs to test the feed, Master," Neal said, raising an eyebrow in his direction.

"Right…" Peter said, frowning as he removed his hand from Neal's shoulder. "Better?"

"Yeah," Edgar said. "Okay, I'm going to start at the bottom and work up until we can be sure it's actually activating and your slave's not faking it."

"I won't fake it," Neal said, looking Peter in the eye. "I won't."

"Here we go…"

Neal gritted his teeth, clenching his fists as a light shock went from his neck throughout his body, leaving him tingling. Another one followed, though this one was more intense. The next one made Neal gasp, arms and shoulders twitching without his permission, and he had to lock his knees to keep from falling to the ground.

"Neal?" Peter said, reaching out toward him.

Neal's eyes widened. "Peter, don't!"

"Hey, you called me Peter—" the rest of the sentence was cut off as his hand connected with Neal's shoulder and Edgar sent another shock through the collar. This one was strong, very strong, and it flowed right through him into Peter.

The other man gave a short cry, yanking his hand back as his legs went out from under him. Luckily there was a cage right behind him that kept him from falling to the ground. "Shit! What the hell?!"

Neal was on his knees, shivers still running through his body and making him twitch, but he crawled toward Peter, reaching out.

"Don't touch me!"

Neal flinched back, yanking his hand away from Peter's knee. "Sorry, sorry," he muttered, though his words felt slurred. Too many shocks too quickly could do that.

"Oh my God, man, I am so sorry," Edgar said, moving over toward Peter. "What the hell were you thinking, touching him? Like sticking your goddamn finger in an electrical socket. Are you okay? You need me to call an ambulance?"

Peter looked up at the man in disbelief. "Do *I* need an ambulance? What about him?" He nodded toward Neal. "How many times did you shock him?"

Edgar looked as confused as Neal felt. "I told you I was testing the feed, seeing if the voltage was good. You touched him on a level five. That's only three steps down from the safety default, and five down from the maximum even if you disable the safety. An eight would have knocked you out for a good, long time. Maybe you should see a doctor."

"I'm fine," Peter said through gritted teeth, pushing himself to his feet. "Get out of my way." He moved over, kneeling down next to Neal. Neal dropped his head and hunched his shoulders, heart pounding as he tried to imagine what Peter might do to him for this. He was obviously upset, Neal could tell that. Peter's hand came down in Neal's hair, but he didn't yank.

"Give me that remote." Peter's voice was hard and unforgiving, not exactly what you want to hear from the man you just shocked. Neal swallowed hard. This was not going to be good. Not good at all.

o o o

Neal looked like a kid sitting there, head lowered, a dazed look in his eyes. His back was hunched, the bruising displayed prominently, and his left hand was still twitching slightly.

What the fuck had that bastard been thinking? God, Peter felt guilty. But how the hell was he supposed to know that 'testing the feed' meant shocking the shit out of Neal? He was getting sick of this slave jargon. How come none of this crap had been in that manual?

"Give me that remote," Peter said in a dangerous voice, glaring up at the fat bastard who ran this horror shop.

Neal flinched at the words and Peter ran a hand comfortingly through his hair.

"Do you want me to show you how—"

"I said give it to me!" Peter snapped, not wanting it in the man's hands for another second. "Now."

Edgar held it out, looking a little worried. "Hey, are you sure you're okay? That was a pretty intense shock."

Peter gritted his teeth. How could this son of a bitch go on and on about how bad the shock had been when he'd had no problem doing it to Neal?

"Hey, are you okay?" Peter asked, running a hand down Neal's cheek to tip his face up.

"I'm sorry, Master," Neal said, obediently raising his face but keeping his eyes pointedly lowered. "Didn't mean to, I swear."

"I know that, Caffrey," Peter said quietly. "It was my fault."

"If you're going to shock me again, you should really back up a little," Neal said in a shaky voice.

"What? I'm not going to shock you, dammit." Peter shook his head. "Do you really think I'd do that?"

Neal raised his eyes to meet Peter's gaze. "That's what the collar is for, sir."

"Yeah, well, that's not what I plan to use it for," Peter replied shortly.

Neal laughed softly. "You might want to spend some time around me before you say that, Master."

"Oh, I've spent enough time around you to know that you irritate the shit out of me, but I don't think electric shock treatment can cure you of your personality," Peter said, standing up and offering his hand to Neal.

"Obviously you don't know many slave trainers," Neal said as he took his hand.

Peter wasn't sure if that was a joke or not, wasn't sure if he *wanted* to know if that was a joke or not, so he turned his attention to Edgar. "Show me how to set up this radius so we can get the hell out of here."

Edgar nodded vigorously, obviously sensing that Peter was less than pleased. "Right, right, of course."

Neal's eyes were on the ground again and his hands had found their way into that weird position behind his back. He looked about twelve years old, standing there shirtless with bruises covering his whole body. It made Peter feel sick, seeing Neal Caffrey like that. That bastard warden was going to get an earful from Peter.

"Neal, put your clothes back on, okay?" Peter said. "I want to get out of here."

The man just nodded, moving over toward his abandoned shirt. Ten minutes later they were on their way, Neal's radius set and the remote in Peter's pocket. Talk about an eventful morning. Now if they could just get to the office in one piece, that would be nice.

"Hey, Master," Neal said, catching Peter's arm as they stepped out onto the sidewalk. "Thanks."

Peter's brow furrowed. "For what?"

"You know, for not…" Neal gestured vaguely toward his neck.

"For not shocking you?" Peter asked.

Neal shrugged. "Yeah. Thanks."

"You didn't do anything, Neal. I was the one who touched you." Peter grimaced. "And after feeling that myself, I don't think there's anything you could do that would deserve that. Are you really sure you're alright?" Peter was still trying to shake off the feeling, and he'd just gotten the residual effects.

"It wasn't that high of a setting, Master," Neal said, adjusting his tie in the shop window. "You should feel a level nine. Ten seconds of hell before you black out."

Peter's lip turned up. "Someone's shocked you like that? Who?"

Neal turned back to him, apparently happy with his attire once more. "Oh, you don't know him. Let's just say that he allegedly shocked the shit out of me all the time, and then I allegedly drained his bank accounts and transferred the money to an off shore account."

"My job doesn't allow me to say that he allegedly deserved it," Peter replied, "but know that the sentiment is there." Definitely there. Peter might go about it with a badge instead of a fake ID and a good con, but getting bastards like that was what he enjoyed most about being in Vice Collar. Not to mention that anyone who hurt Neal like that deserved to rot.

"Come on," Peter said as they approached the car, hitting the unlock button. "We've got work to do."


	7. The Sucker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jones talks to Neal like an actual slave, Diana explains slaves to Peter, and Neal gets his hat stolen.

Vice Collar was nothing like Neal had imagined. Not that he'd spent a lot of time contemplating what Peter's office looked like or anything, but the word "vice" just had a sort of negativity to it that brought up images of grungy, cramped, low lit areas stuffed full of old desks and filing cabinets. 

The actual offices were bright and airy, with glass walls that gave the place a very open and inviting feel. Instead of filing cabinets they had neatly organized shelves in the center of the main area, and up a short set of stairs, several offices and a conference room overlooked the lower level.

There were lots of agents, but not too many for the space, and sunlight poured in through the wide windows. Overall, it had a really good feel to it. Also, Neal had calculated at least seven simple escape routes, an automatic response to a new place, and that was comforting, even if he wasn't planning on going anywhere. This office definitely wasn't built to keep people in. He wasn't trapped. Okay, yeah, he was trapped, but not in a physical sense, at least, and that was something. Not much, but something.

Neal was doing his best to stay right behind Peter, which probably make him look like he was slinking around, but sticking close to his master's broad back made him feel safe. In the privacy of his master's home, Peter might have been Neal's greatest worry, but out here the man was his safeguard. Peter was strong and powerful everywhere he went, while Neal was well beyond his abilities to protect himself, in these offices especially.

It didn't look like there were any other slaves in the office. Slaves weren't required to show their collars or other marks of ownership, but it was a crime to impersonate a free man, something that hiding them could get you accused of, so most slaves made sure the collars or bindings or tattoos that marked them as slaves showed. 

Neal's collar barely peeked out from beneath his shirt, and the matte black metal wasn't very eye catching. The marks on his wrists that had revealed his place to June were hidden by his cuffs and the heavy coverup El had loaned him had subdued the bruising enough that you might mistake the marks on his face as accidental, the result of a fall or something silly like a bar fight.

The last place Neal wanted to be accused of impersonating a free man was in the middle of the Vice Collar offices. Okay, that sort of thing was usually handled by local PD, not the Feds, but that didn't mean that any of these agents couldn't arrest him. He had drawn his arms back even further behind himself than usual in an attempt to seem subservient, crossing them at the wrists instead of holding one wrist with the opposite hand, and his head was literally bowed, eyes on the back of Peter's wingtips. Short of getting down on his hands and knees and crawling after his master, it was as submissive a posture as he could take. Anybody would know he was a slave at a glance. People didn't walk like that, it wasn't natural. Well, it was natural to Neal, but he'd been doing it for thirty years.

"Hey, Peter, what you got there?" a voice called out.

Neal resisted the urge to raise his head up enough to look, taking in the man's shoes instead. He wore nice dress shoes instead of the ugly wingtips that Peter preferred, but they were slightly scuffed. He had good taste, but wasn't vain. His pants weren't tailored, definitely off the shelf, and from the size of his ankles and feet Neal guessed he was well built, probably average in height. Possibly Caucasian but probably African America, Neal deduced from his voice, and relatively young, twenties or thirties. Considering his age, he likely worked for Peter.

"Oh, hey, Jones." There was a patting sound, probably Peter clapping this Jones fellow on the shoulder or vice versa, then Peter moved off to the side, putting his hand on Neal's lower back. "This is Neal Caffrey." Peter suddenly appeared in Neal's little window of sight, a puzzled look on his face. "Hello, earth to Neal."

Neal took that as a signal to raise his head—God forbid Peter be like a normal master and just order him to raise his head—and looked up. Yup, he'd been right. The man in front of him was in his early thirties and squarely built. His suit was off the rack, probably from a department store, but it was more stylish than Peter's old fashioned choices.

"Neal Caffrey?" The man said, staring at Neal like he'd seen a ghost. "*The* Neal Caffrey? Like, as in James Bondage Neal Caffrey?"

"That's the one," Peter said dryly, patting Neal's back lightly. "Neal, this is Clinton Jones. One of my best agents."

Neal nodded silently in Jones' direction, careful not to meet his eyes.

"Why the hell are you toting around Neal Caffrey? I thought his criminal contract was increased after the escape gone wrong.” Jones studied Neal, raising an eyebrow. "Nice outfit. You have that in the back of your closet, Peter? Because I'd be happy to come by and take a few suits off your hands if that's what you're hiding behind your sports coats."

Neal hid a smile at the words, liking Jones already.

“His contract was extended," Peter said, pointedly ignoring the clothing comment. "But Neal here agreed to help us on the Dutchman case if I'd take on his contract. It's a trial period," he added, a little too quickly in Neal's opinion. He *really* needed to get started on his plans to woo his master.

"Huh," Jones said, looking a little skeptical. "He made a deal with you."

Peter nodded. "He recognized the Canadian chip from a piece of plastic on my jacket—something that no one in this office, including you, had a clue about. I think he can help us."

Neal winced at the words. Thanks a lot, Peter, for setting Jones up to hate him immediately. Go ahead, tell the obviously driven FBI agent that the slave did something he couldn't, because that makes *everyone's* day.

Thankfully Jones didn't look too offended. "Well, maybe he can. This is a new one—a criminal contract slave in Vice Collar. Where was he serving his contract before?"

"You could ask him you know," Peter said, "he *is* standing right here."

Neal dropped his head, shifting uncomfortably as Jones glanced back and forth between him and Peter, a look of surprise on his face. Obviously Jones had more real life experience with slaves than Peter did, enough to know that talking like they weren't there was the norm. 

"Right…" Jones said, looking at Neal with mild amusement. "Where were you serving before, boy?" His words were short and brisk, to the point, their meaning clear. He spoke like a master. Neal wondered idly if he owned slaves. At least with this man there was no question how Neal should respond.

"Sing Sing, sir," Neal replied immediately, ignoring the frown that had appeared on Peter's face at Jones' words. Answer the easy questions now, deal with his master's mercurial moods later.

"What would you be doing at a prison—" Jones cut off abruptly, realization dawning in his eyes. "You're a brig slave?" the words were guarded, as was Jones' expression, but Neal didn't miss the hint of distaste in the man's voice.

A brig slave. That explained it. Jones must have been military. The military had almost as many slaves as it did officers, and they were the ones to invent prison slaves, back in Vietnam, though it was technically illegal since they tended to use prisoners of war rather than actual slaves. But the duties were the same.

"Yes, sir," Neal replied, schooling his face into an emotionless mask. "I'm a prison slave."

"Hm. I didn't realize civilian penitentiaries had brig slaves. Interesting," Jones said, obviously to himself, before turning his attention back to Neal. "Well, then you had better work hard, boy, because Agent Burke is doing you a big favor."

"He's going to work hard," Peter cut in, looking somewhat annoyed, "and he's well aware that I'm doing him a favor. Now how about you get back on the case while I show Neal around the office?" He walked off without giving Jones time to respond, and Neal shot the man an apologetic look before hurrying after his master. Apparently their next stop was up the stairs in the glass walled offices, because Peter was halfway there by the time Neal caught up to him.

Peter came to a halt in front of the largest office. The blinds were shut, so Neal couldn't see inside, but he assumed this was the head of the department's office.

"This is Agent Hughes," Peter said, pushing the door open. Inside an older man was sitting behind a large mahogany desk reading a file and sipping coffee. "My boss. He wants to talk to you." He stepped aside, holding the door and gesturing for Neal to enter.

"By myself, Master?" Neal questioned, nervousness rising up inside him.

"Yeah," Peter said, nodding. "I'm gonna get your work space set up while you two chat. Come find me when you're done."

Neal took a hesitant step in, then another, jumping a little when the door swung shut behind him. The older man's eyes were still on the file in his hands, so Neal stepped forward, coming to a stop right in front of the desk and dropping his head, wondering nervously if he was supposed to kneel. 

For at least five minutes he stood there in silence while the man continued to read his file, but that wasn't unusual. In the past Neal had waited silently for his master's attention for hours. This Agent Hughes would recognize him when he was ready to deal with him. 

What did make him uncomfortable was the wanted poster sitting in the middle of the man's desk, on full display. A sketch of Neal smiled up from it, the words 'WANTED - Rebel Slave, Reward for Live Return' printed in big, black letters on it. Below the sketch of his face was a gritty picture of him kneeling that looked like it had come from a security camera somewhere.

"Hello, Caffrey."

Neal stood there in silence as the man dropped his file onto the desk and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked Neal up and down.

"Well, this is quite the sight. I have to admit, I never expected to have you running around my office."

If it had been Peter, Neal would have responded, but this wasn't Peter and the man hadn't asked a direct question or told him to speak, so Neal took the safe route and kept his mouth shut.

Agent Hughes sighed, shaking his head. "I want you to know that I think this is a bad idea."

Neal bit his lower lip, resisting the urge to respond with as many reasons as he could come up with for why keeping him around was a good idea.

"You're very obedient."

Neal blinked in surprise at the words. They were definitely not what he'd expected to follow 'I think this is a bad idea'.

Agent Hughes gave him a tired smile. "I've been in Vice Collar a long time, lad. I retired, then they brought me back. I've seen a lot of slaves. I like to think I understand you." Agent Hughes picked up the wanted poster, looking down at it in amusement. "Rebel slave. You're no rebel. I've seen rebels. You're a good boy."

Neal took a deep breath, wanting desperately to ask the agent why, if he was such a good boy, the man thought this was a bad idea. Moz would want him to, saying brass is always better, but it wasn't worth upsetting the head of Vice Collar just to please the little Mozzie-devil sitting on his shoulder, so Neal held his tongue.

"See, look how good you are. You're dying to talk, I can see it in your eyes, but you don't. When did they start training you, Caffrey?" Agent Hughes asked, eyeing Neal in a scholarly sort of way. "Young, I bet."

"Twelve, sir," Neal lied automatically.

"Bullshit," Agent Hughes shot back. "I know what you are, and I know that you were trained for it earlier than that. This isn't about legalities, boy. Just tell me."

"Seven, sir," Neal admitted, feeling vaguely ashamed for saying it. It wasn't like he could get his childhood trainer arrested—the man wasn't listed on his registration—but he still felt guilty for speaking the man's secrets.

"Seven." Agent Hughes looked vaguely disgusted. "I swear, they start them younger and younger." He sighed. "Agent Burke is a good man. Vice Collar is not an easy assignment, and Peter has managed to balance his work and his home amazingly well. His home is his sanctuary, the place he can retreat to after spending all day dealing with the darkest side of slavery. But you, Caffrey, are the pure essence of everything wrong with slavery."

Neal winced at the man's accusatory tone.

"You were started too young, you were trained too hard. You were passed around and around then, when you finally found a long term owner, you committed crime after crime in the name of your Mistress. Just the cons we know about included selling yourself to some of the most notoriously cruel bastards out there, so you've seen the worst of what the world has to offer when it comes to owners, and we know you've infiltrated SlaveMart at least once, so you've seen the corporate evils as well." 

Agent Hughes gave a sharp laugh, then continued, "And I thought it ended there, but I talked to a friend of mine in the NYPD yesterday, and he told me what prison slaves do. So I'd say you got the worst criminal contract that a slave can get. You *are* what we here at Vice Collar fight, and I don't mean your criminal escapades. I mean that we fight so slaves *don't* end up like you. You are the essence of what we at Vice Collar want to wipe out of the world."

Neal swallowed hard, a rush of fear coming over him at the man's bluntly honest words.

Agent Hughes held up a hand. "Relax, boy. I don't mean that I want to put you down. I mean that, if I had my way, you wouldn't be standing here right now because you never would have been put in the kind of situations you ended up in. You're just a slave. It's not really your fault what you are. Someone made you this way. But Peter needs his home to be an escape, a place where he doesn't have to think about slaves like you all the time. Otherwise, he's going to end up like me, where the dark side of it all is the only thing he can see. And I'll tell you, that's a depressing way to live." Agent Hughes rubbed tiredly at his face. "Do you understand?"

"I understand, Agent Hughes, sir," Neal said, heart beating a little too fast.

"But understanding isn't going to stop you from trying your best to con your way into Peter's life is it?" Hughes asked, voice flat.

Neal licked his lips nervously. "No, sir," he said quietly. "I don't want to go back to the prison, sir."

"That's selfish of you, boy. You should be thinking about your master's good, not your own."

The words were like a slap to the face. It was true. Neal *was* being selfish. Agent Hughes was right. He should be thinking about Peter, not himself. He was a slave, it was his job to do his best for his master.

Except the worst that could happen to Peter was that he might become a little jaded. But if Neal returned to prison…

"I'm sorry, Agent Hughes," he said hoarsely. "You're right, I'm being selfish and it's wrong. But I don't care, sir. I can't go back."

"Come here," Agent Hughes said sharply, pushing his chair back. After a moment's hesitation, Neal obeyed, walking slowly around the desk. "On your knees."

Neal lowered himself down in front of the man's chair, heart pounding in his chest as he tried to imagine what Agent Hughes was going to do with him. He wished Peter was here to put that big hand on his shoulder and tell him what he was supposed to do. The man didn't make much sense, but they had a connection that went back years. Peter had been hard with him in the past, but Neal grudgingly respected that in a master. Agent Hughes was an unknown.

The older man reached out, using Neal's tie to tug him forward. "Remember this, Caffrey," he said in a low voice. "Agent Burke is your master now. If you step out of line, it reflects back on him. I know you don't want to go back to Sing Sing, and I can understand that, but Peter is a dear friend of mine and if your little plans hurt him in *any* way, I will escort you back there myself. I don't believe in mistreating slaves, but if you do something to screw with Peter's life, I will make an exception. Is that understood?"

Neal nodded rapidly. "Yes, sir," he said in a shaky voice. "It's understood, Agent Hughes."

"Good." Agent Hughes released his tie and pushed him away. "I'm glad we're clear. Now get out of my office. I have work to do."

o o o

"It's a goddamn slave!" Agent Milligan snapped as he piled the last of his things into a cardboard box, obviously not happy about having to give up his prime spot for Neal. "What does he need a desk for? Stick him on the floor by your desk like every other office slave out there."

"This isn't SlaveMart," Peter replied sharply. "Or Microsoft or Valero or any of those other corporate giants who give their slaves three feet of space and a notepad and expect them to work miracles. This is Vice Collar, and Neal is a valuable addition to this team. It's not as if you're going far, Milligan! It's just down the hall."

The man snorted, shaking his head. "God, you're such a freaking liberal. After all the shit we see, how the hell you can have any respect for them at all is beyond me. Caffrey is only as valuable as his pretty ass would sell for on the open market and, with his record, I'm thinking that ain't much. We chase him for three years and now he's strutting around Vice Collar? He belongs in a cage where he can't cause trouble."

Peter clenched his fists angrily as the other man picked up his box. "I don't think I like your attitude, Agent Milligan."

"Well, I don't think I like your slave," he snapped, shooting Peter one last angry look before taking off toward the door.

Peter collapsed in the chair behind the desk with a sigh as he watched the other man go. Who knew having a slave would be this exhausting? Weren't slaves supposed to make your life easier? All he was getting out of this was a pounding headache, but he supposed that was to be expected with anything involving Neal Caffrey. Neal, with his handsome face and his bright blue eyes and his uncanny ability to drive Peter absolutely insane.

He owned Neal. He, Peter Burke, owned Neal Caffrey. Peter was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact. It was a little frustrating, to be honest. How did you own a person? Peter hadn't owned slaves growing up, hadn't even really known anyone who owned slaves, so he'd never contemplated it much. In fact, it might as well have been a slave free society for all Peter had thought about slaves as a kid. Obviously joining Vice Collar had opened him up to the world of slavery, but he'd never sat down and considered what it would be like to actually *own* a slave.

According to the law, Peter was free to do absolutely anything he wanted with Neal. There were no safeties set up for a slave. Killing your slave was not considered murder, and beating them wasn't assault. Killing someone else's slave wasn't even murder, just destruction of property. Slaves were simply thought of as less than human. A slave was its master's possession to do with as he pleased. Peter could do anything. He could even take Neal sexually if he wanted.

Whoa, whoa, whoa! When the hell had he started thinking about Neal that way? Yeah, the man was roguishly handsome, maybe even beautiful, and he was as charming as hell, but Peter didn't like men that way. He didn't like Neal that way, not at all. Thinking another man was handsome didn't mean that you wanted to do *that* with him. Right?

It didn't matter. Attracted to Neal or not, Peter would never touch him. What could have been a fantasy if Peter was a different sort of man just made him feel sick, the thought of Neal staring up at him hatefully as Peter tugged off his clothes making him want to bleach his mind.

It would be so much easier if it wasn't *Neal.* Childhood perceptions aside, this was *not* a free society. Peter saw slaves everywhere. They took his order in restaurants, washed his car, dry cleaned his suits, pushed his shopping cart, and opened the doors in office buildings. Tray and Sheila's slave cooked their food, washed the floors, changed the channel, got them beers, and rubbed Sheila's feet after a long day at work. You'd think that, with all the things they did, that slaves would be a prominent fixture in his life, but most of the time Peter didn't even notice them.

Slaves were silent and obedient, nothing more than background noise. Peter didn't even know what Tray's slave was named. He was always around when they wanted something. There was never a need to call his name. In fact, Peter could barely remember what he looked like. He had dark skin, maybe Latino, and short cropped hair, but besides that… Peter had seen him a dozen times, taken a Bud Lite from his hands and tossed him his napkin to throw away, but he couldn't draw up a clear picture.

Neal, on the other hand… The only thing forgettable about Neal was that the man was a slave at all. Because he was so different from other slaves, so unforgettable, Peter had just assumed that he was different on the inside as well. But after their morning romp at the slave shop, Peter was starting to think that maybe Neal wasn't as different as he had thought.

Neal wanted a cage. What kind of man wanted a cage? And what kind of man's response to calling a cage horrifically tiny was that small was safe since no one else could fit in? Fit in to do what? Peter wasn't sure he wanted to know, wasn't sure it *mattered*, because if you would really sit all day bent over in a cage when you could just unlock the thing and climb out without your master ever knowing, then it didn't matter whether or not someone else would fit in the damn cage with you. You would come out when called anyway.

"You look confused," a voice said. Peter looked up, raising an eyebrow at his favorite probie.

"That would be because I am confused. Confused as all hell, actually." He sighed. "But please, can we skip the 'oh my God you took on Caffrey' speech? I've heard it half a dozen times already, and, frankly, I'm sick of hearing it."

Diana chuckled. "I'm sure you are. But that's not what's bothering you, is it?"

Peter shook his head. "No. It's nothing as simple as that. All I have to do to solve that issue is send out a department wide fax stating that the next person who bitches at me is out of the job. Unfortunately, the answer to my other problem isn't so straight forward." He rubbed his forehead tiredly. "Caffrey's so… different than I thought he would be."

"You've never had a slave, right?" Diana questioned, perching on the edge of the desk.

"No, I haven't. Never really had a need for one. Never really *wanted* one." He sighed. "But I work in Vice Collar, dammit! I deal with slaves all the time. This shouldn't be so confusing."

"You deal with slaves," Diana said seriously. "You don't live with them. There's a big difference." She paused. "SlaveMart was still a brand spanking new company when I was a kid. Slavery in the middle class was more of a concept than a reality. Nobody really thought that it would take off. But I was the daughter of a diplomat. We had plenty of slaves. The woman who held me and rocked me to sleep was a slave. My bodyguard was a slave. Even my best friend was a slave—a little boy who helped out carrying stuff in the kitchen. My father ended up selling him. It made me furious but, now that I look back on it, I think he was probably an illegitimate child by one of the slave girls. In other words, my half brother."

Peter's eyebrows shot up. "Wow… That's…"

"Fucked up," Diana said dryly. "Yeah, it is. But I was used to slaves. In my mind, a slave wore a collar, lived in a cage, and did whatever you wanted, no thanks required. But when the parents of my friends from school started purchasing 'value slaves' from SlaveMart for low dollar prices, I discovered that people who didn't grow up with slaves have a very different idea of what a slave is. What you need to understand, Peter, is that there is a difference between a servant and a slave."

"What do you mean?" Peter asked, frowning.

"You're confused because when you think of a slave, you see a servant. A servant is a worker who does your bidding because it benefits them to do so. A servant expects some payment for their work. It doesn't have to be money. It could be things like food and water and clothes and blankets. Hell, maybe all you're giving them is thanks and appreciation. But a servant expects to get *something,* and if they don't get receive it they'll be upset, angry. They'll feel as if you owe them something."

Peter bit his lip thoughtfully. "So you're saying that's not how a slave thinks?"

Diana nodded. "That's right. A slave is not a servant. We talk about their training all the time, but I can tell that, like you, a lot of agents don't really understand what that means. They think you train a slave like you would a servant. Teach them how to do whatever they need to know in order to do their job and send them out to do it. But that's not what training is for a slave. A slave is trained from birth that they are a possession. If a free man somehow ended up enslaved, maybe as a POW or something, he would probably spend the rest of his life angry at his master. But slaves don't have that kind of identity. It doesn't matter what you think of them, they don't think of themselves as someone who serves you."

What? God, this was getting more confusing by the minute. 

"I don't get it. How can they not think of themselves as someone who serves you?" Peter questioned. "I mean, that's what a slave does."

"Being someone who serves you involves having an identity as a person," Diana replied with a shrug. "Slaves think of themselves as a possession that does what its master wants, like a car or a motorcycle. You turn it on and it does what you tell it to. Sometimes it may foul up and has to be fixed, just like a slave might act out and need to be punished. But when a slave acts out, it isn't because they feel they've been wronged. It's because they're in a bad mood or because they didn't get any sleep and are tired or because they burnt the dinner they'd been cooking for an hour and it pissed them off. Not because their master slapped them or they weren't given a nice cage or they were loaned to a stranger for sex. 

“Everybody has a bad attitude sometimes, but a slave's bad attitude is never based on feelings that they aren't getting what they deserve. That's the difference between a slave and a servant. A rebel slave is simply a slave that feels that it deserves recognition for the things it does. Other slaves find that abnormal, and that's why rebel slaves are usually turned in by other slaves. Their behavior makes no sense to a slave that's been properly trained. Slave training is really just a step away from brainwashing when you get down to it."

Peter's forehead wrinkled as he tried to process the idea. What would it be like to honestly think of yourself as someone else's possession? How could you possibly live life without feeling as though you deserved recognition for your *work*? It seemed impossible. There was no way a human being could actually think that way, was there? "I don't know, Diana. I just can't wrap my mind about that. How do you train a person to think that way? I mean, let's face it, people are naturally selfish."

"We are who we are because of how we were raised, Peter," Diana said. "Slaves were raised knowing that their bodies weren't their own. That's why they say it's impossible to rape a slave. Rape means you are forced to have sex against your will, but slaves aren't the ones who get to decide what's done with their bodies. They don't own the rights to themselves. Trust me, slaves are intimately aware that their masters can do absolutely anything they want to them while they, themselves, can't even decide whether they want to wear their hair long or short."

Peter's eyes drifted up toward Hughes' office. "But it's *Neal Caffrey,* Diana. If you had seen him at his peak… The man is amazing. He's intelligent beyond belief and talented as hell. He's not just some house slave who vacuums your living room. His bragging drives me crazy, but it's pretty much true. He *is* the best at what he does." Peter shook his head, a frustrated feeling coming over him. "Which is why it drives me crazy that he wants a *cage.* He's always spouting off about how talented he is, being cocky as hell, but then he gets all weird and shifty eyed when I don't treat him like a dog? Tell me how that's normal."

"Don't forget that, whatever crime he committed, he always twisted it around in his mind as something he was doing for his Mistress," Diana pointed out. "It was a lie, of course. She didn't even know where he was most of the time, so how could he be 'obeying' her? But the point is that Neal *needed* that lie in order to do the things he did. They declared him a rebel slave right off the bat. He wasn't telling tall tales for the government's sake, he was telling them because he needed to feel like he was doing his mistress' will in order to act autonomously. He doesn't consider himself an equal, so treating him like a dog *is* normal to him."

"So I'm supposed to starve him and cage him and drag him around on a goddamn shock collar?" Peter spat out, more than a little agitated. "That is *not* what I signed up for, Diana."

She gave him a comforting smile. "I know, Peter, and that's what makes you a good man, and what will make you a good master. But you need to ask less of Caffrey, at least right now. It's your responsibility to be his master, not his responsibility to be your partner. He wasn't trained to be someone's partner, he was trained to be their slave. He was raised with the knowledge that any day could be his last day if he displeased his master. So if you want to have a good relationship, you need to recognize that you're powerful and he's weak. He's depending on you to protect him."

"Neal is not weak," Peter said forcefully. "Far from it. Have you *seen* some of the cons he ran? They're unbelievable."

"I'm not talking about brains or talent, Peter," Diana said, shaking her head. "I'm talking about his place in this world, something that's beyond his ability to change. You could throw Caffrey on the ground right now, break both his legs, and shatter every bone in his face without any consequences then make him thank you for it. That's pretty much the definition of weak, Peter, whether you like it or not." 

With those words she stood up, giving him a tight smile. "I better get back on the case. It will work out, Peter. Just don't be too hard on yourself, okay? And give Caffrey a break. He's only a slave. If you want him to be more than that, you need to take it slow, otherwise you'll just end up hurting him."

o o o

Neal pretty much crept down the stairs, sort of clinging to the railing. His knees were feeling a little weak, Agent Hughes' voice still echoing in his head.

_‘You are the essence of everything we at Vice Collar want to wipe out of the world.’_

Despite Agent Hughes' assurances that he wasn't planning to put Neal down, the words still made him a little nauseous. He supposed it was true, though. The Vice Collar division handled trafficking of underage fucklings; rebel slaves who crossed state borders; masters who used their slaves to commit crimes; thievery of high end slave-related art, jewelry, and products; counterfeit slave registrations; criminal activity in the slave megacorps; and illegal training and trading of slaves. Neal fell into every one of those categories except for masters who use their slaves to commit crimes, but even then he'd been the slave used by the master to commit said crimes.

He was like a Vice Collar scarlet letter.

As Neal moved around behind the stacks, a woman came hurtling out of nowhere, face stuck deep in a file. Apparently she had places to be, because she slammed into Neal hard enough to send the file flying up in the air, papers raining down around them.

"Oh my goshity gosh, I am so sorry—" She cut off, eyes widening as she got a good look at his face. "You're James Bondage."

"Sorry, Miss," Neal muttered, ignoring her comment as he dropped to his knees to try and collect the papers. "So sorry."

"Don't touch those!" the woman said, actually kicking his hand as he reached for another of the loose sheets.

Neal grunted in pain as she kicked his hand again. Dammit! He pulled his hand to his chest, cradling it as he glared in her general direction. He hated those pointy toed pumps all women seemed to love. It was like getting stabbed with a dull knife.

"Why are you here?" she demanded, towering over him. "Did you escape again?"

Neal looked up at her in disbelief. Was she out of her mind? Why the hell would he escape from prison slavery and come straight to the goddamn FBI headquarters? "Miss, I was—"

"Don't talk!" she said, shoving a finger in his face, and Neal fell silent, cursing the shelves hiding them from the rest of the room. "What are you doing here?"

Neal opened his mouth then shut it again, not sure if he should obey her command to stay silent or answer her question. He was saved from having to make a decision by the appearance of a hulking man with thick glasses.

"Hey, Lindsay, what's going on?"

"James Bondage is here," she said in a loud whisper, like she was telling a secret.

The man looked down at him, raising an eyebrow. "Uh, yeah, I'd heard. Agent Burke bought it."

The woman's—Lindsay's?—mouth dropped open. "What?!"

The man nodded. "Yup. Milligan said that he overheard Burke telling Hughes that he was going to take him back to that bank where Caffrey gave him the sucker and fuck him in the vaults."

Neal blinked. Seriously? He had a hard time imagining Peter spilling out his fantasies to Agent Hughes. But that was good news, right? Even if it was just Peter getting revenge, it would make him happy, and happy people didn't send their slaves back to prison. It didn't really matter *how* the happy came about, as long as it kept him on Peter's good side. He'd never been fucked in a bank vault before. Corporate safe, yes. Bank vault, no.

Lindsay's eyes got even bigger. "Are you *serious*?"

"Yeah. Said he's going to give the boy something to *really* suck on."

Oh, that was clever. God, what had possessed him to give Peter that damn sucker? He'd just *had* to act like the big shot, trying to prove to Peter that he was more than some pitiful fuckling who keeled over when you glanced its way. Look where that had gotten him. 

Now here he was, on his knees in the middle of Vice Collar, trying to come up with ways to prove to Peter that he *was* a pitiful fuckling who would keel over when you glanced its way before Peter got sick of his attitude and tossed him back in Sing Sing for the dogs to eat. Or, more precisely, to fuck.

"What you think about that, James?" Glasses guy asked. "Bet you're sorry you messed with the FBI. All you've got to look forward to now is spending the rest of your life sucking Burke's dick and washing his socks."

Okay… Just what did this guy think he'd done before? Gone jet skiing in the Caribbean? Drank wine in Napa Valley? Backpacked through Europe? Neal was a *slave.* It didn't matter who he belonged to, he'd always did some variation of sucking dick and washing socks.

Without warning, thick glasses dude reached out, snatching Neal's hat off his head and settling it on his own. Then the man grabbed Neal by the hair and yanked him forward, grinding Neal's face into his groin.

"Stephen!" Lindsay hissed, looking distraught. "Stop that! He belongs to Agent Burke! You could lose your job for messing around with him!"

Stephen the asshole just pulled Neal harder against him. Hard being the operative word there, as that was exactly what Stevie boy's dick was becoming. Not that Neal really gave a shit. It wasn't the first time some jerkwad had stuck his junk in Neal's face to make himself feel more like a man. What pissed him off was that the bastard was wearing his *hat.*

"Stephen, please stop. If you make Agent Burke mad, we'll spend the rest of our careers filing papers," Lindsay said, tugging at Stephen's arm.

"Chill out, Lindsay. What would Burke care?"

Neal gritted his teeth, glaring up at the asshole above him as best he could with his nose buried in the bastard's zipper. Who the fuck did he think he was to mess with Neal's hat? Peter's hat. Peter's hat that he'd given Neal. *Whatever.* The point being that it wasn't Steve McDoucheBag's fucking hat, and Neal didn't want to catch lice from this trash heap of an agent.

"Give me my hat back," Neal said coldly, though his words were slightly muffled by the semi-erect dick pressing against his face.

"Excuse me?" Fuckwad said, raising his eyebrows. "Did you just talk back to me, boy?"

This was a really bad idea. Neal should just let it go. A good slave would let it go, and that was exactly what he wanted Peter to think of him as. But, goddammit, the jerk had messed with the *hat.*

"I said give me my damn hat back, and get your Slim Jim out of my face." Neal shifted his gaze toward Lindsay, smirking. "And Jim *is* slim, if you know what I mean, Miss."

"You little—"

"What the *hell* is going on here?" Peter's voice came out of nowhere and Neal physically winced. Peter sounded pissed. Really, really, really pissed. He'd probably heard the Slim Jim comment. Great.

Stephen turned toward Peter, fist tightening in Neal's hair. "He was talking back to me," he said, smirking down at Neal. Fucking tattle tale.

"He was," Lindsay piped up. Great. The office was full of snitches. Why wasn't Neal surprised?

"I was, sir," Neal agreed dully, not that he could do much else. The evidence was against him, Peter having heard it and all.

"Let him go," Peter snapped, his face a deep shade of red.

Stephen the snitch obeyed, flashing Neal another smirk, obviously very pleased at the fact that there was almost surely a beating coming for Neal.

Peter's eyes shifted back and forth between Stephen and Neal, the look in them growing darker by the second. He looked angry enough that Neal was starting to feel really nervous. Peter wouldn't send him back to prison for one stupid dick joke, would he? Okay, yeah, it was technically illegal to insult a free man. But he was wearing Neal's *hat.* And shoving his face in his groin, too, but that was secondary.

"Why are you wearing his hat?"

Neal blinked in surprise at the words. What the fuck?

Stephen looked as lost as Neal felt, reaching up to fumble with the brim. "I, uh, I was just…"

"What?" Peter snapped. "Playing dress up? Oh, yeah, and also... What the *hell* were you doing with his face in your crotch, Agent Johnson?!" The last was almost a shout. Neal flinched, heart speeding up a little.

Stephen had gone rather pale. "He gave it to me."

"Really?" Peter said, tone making it clear that he was not believing a word of it. Maybe there was some hope.

"Yeah. And he… he..." A rather evil look dawned in Stephen's the mofo's eyes. "He came on to me! Said he wanted to suck my dick."

What? Oh, God, that was so not fair! Neal clenched his fists, glaring at the son of a bitch, wishing badly that he was allowed to defend himself.

"In the middle of the stacks," Peter said, voice flat. "In the middle of the day, six feet away from a half a dozen federal agents."

Stephen was nodding rapidly. "Yeah. Not that I was gonna. I was just proving a point, you know, then he got all mouthy!"

"Imagine that," Peter said sarcastically, his eyes still bright with anger. "Neal Caffrey being mouthy. Go sing it on the mountaintop!" He gave Stephen a small shove as he moved over to Neal, squatting down in front of him.

Neal dropped his eyes to the ground, shoulders tensing.

"Are you okay, boy?" The words were surprisingly gentle, considering that Peter still looked like he should have steam pouring out of his ears.

"Yes, Master," Neal mumbled.

"What happened?"

Neal swallowed hard, glancing nervously between Stephen and Peter. He could tell the truth, take the punishment, and instantly make an enemy of at least two agents, opening himself up to all kind of harassment from Stephen and anyone Stephen ran with, or he could lie, take the punishment, and hope that Peter wouldn't be pissed enough to send him back to the pen. Not really any good options there.

"It was like he said," Neal finally replied, feeling a little sick to his stomach at the flat out lie. "I'm sorry, sir." Stephen smirked at the words, pointedly tipping the brim of Neal's fedora in his direction. Dammit, not only was he making Neal look like a slut *and* a rebel, he was going to walk away with his hat, too. Little piece of shit.

"You walked into the stacks, gave your hat to Agent Johnson, got on your knees, and offered him sexual favors." Peter's voice was flat, an edge of disbelief poking through.

"Yes, Master," Neal whispered, lowering his head, his stomach churning. "I walked into the stacks, gave Agent Johnson the hat, knelt down on the floor, and offered to suck him off, sir. Then I shoved my face between his legs."

"And then you talked back to him."

The words were calm enough that Neal risked a glance up at Peter. Big mistake. He instantly regretted raising his eyes, the furious look on his master's face enough to make him want to offer to whip himself just to keep Peter's hands off of him.

"Hm. I see," Peter said, whatever that meant, glancing over his shoulder at Lindsay. "Is that true, Agent Martin? Is that what happened?

The woman's mouth opened and shut several times before she spoke, voice coming out high and squeaky. "Y-yes, sir. Th-that's what happened, Agent Burke."

"You're both fired."

Neal choked at the words, looking up at Peter in disbelief.

"Wh-what?" Stephen asked, looking as shocked as Neal felt.

"I said you're fired," Peter snapped, standing up to look the man in the eyes. "And give me that goddamn hat!" He snatched it off the other man's head and dropped it down on Neal's. "I don't appreciate being lied to by my own agents. If I can't trust you to be forthright in the office, how the hell am I supposed to trust you in the field? If you have a problem with my decision, feel free to file a complaint with Human Resources. But for now? Get the hell out of my sight!"

"Agent Burke, please!" Lindsay said, sounding desperate.

Neal felt a rush of guilt as tears began to rise up in her eyes. "Master," he said in a low voice, craning his neck up to look at Peter. "Please don't fire them for something I did."

Peter looked down at him, his eyes still flashing with anger. "Get up, Neal."

Neal obeyed as quickly as possible, though it made him look a bit ungraceful. "Please, Master," he said again, grimacing as Lindsay practically collapsed against the stacks, sobbing. Stephen didn't look much better, though he hadn't resorted to tears yet, but there was definitely panic in his eyes. "It was my fault, okay? Punish me. He took my hat, and I got pissed. I shouldn't have gotten pissed. It was all me. I swear, Master. You know it's true. You've had first person experience with my mouth."

Peter yanked Neal close, lowering his voice. "Neal, he just sexually assaulted you. Maybe you can't file a complaint, but I can fire him. I don't need an agent working for me who would do things like that. Or one who would stand around while another agent did them. This is not about you, this is about the ethics I expect from my men and women."

"Master," Neal said, voice urgent, "you can't sexually assault a slave. It's *not* the same thing."

"It's close enough." His face was still a little red. "You two. I said get out of my sight. Go pack up your things and get gone before I have to call security. Come on, Neal." He walked off, leaving Lindsay and Stephen behind to cry, and after a second's hesitation Neal followed, feeling confused as hell. He had *no* idea what was going on here. He'd admitted to everything and the agents got fired. So if he'd said he didn't do it, would he have been in trouble? No, that didn't make any sense. *Peter* didn't make any sense.

God this whole job was turning out to be much harder than he'd expected. Neal had prepared himself for the worst. Violent fuckings, broken bones, starvation... anything. But there was no way he could have prepared himself for the way his new master acted. Neal had never seen a master act like he did.

Peter came to a sudden stop in front of a small desk. It was central to the room, in front of one of the floor to floor windows and across from the stacks. Neal stopped as well, still not sure exactly what was going to happen now. Was Peter going to punish him here?

"This will be your desk," Peter said out of nowhere, putting a hand down on it.

"My desk?" Neal questioned, eyebrows shooting up.

"Yeah, your desk. Where you work, sit, type, all that jazz?" Peter gestured toward the computer. "I'm having IT set you up an account. I'll let you know your user ID as soon they send it."

"I thought I was working for you," Neal said slowly.

"You are working for me. Hence the desk," Peter replied. "Any office supplies you need, let the secretary know and she'll order them."

A desk. He had a desk. That was… weird. Neal had never had a desk before. What did you do with all that space? It wasn't like you needed a three by four foot slab of wood to fill out forms, and the computer wasn't big enough to warrant that much room. And all those drawers… How many pens and paperclips could a person have? Not enough to fill even the thin drawer in the middle, much less the other four larger ones. 

What would people say when they saw him sitting at a desk? Would they harass him about it? Considering that he'd only been there an hour and an agent had already tried to steal his hat, it was certainly a possibility, and Peter's office was a long way away from here. Maybe he should sit on the floor, just in case. He could work under the desk, then passerbyers couldn't see him and he wouldn't get flack for sitting on the furniture.

"Hey, Peter."

Neal jumped a little at the voice right behind his back. He turned, coming face to face with a very attractive young woman with light mocha colored skin, long lashes, and a scowl on her face that could make a man piss his pants.

"Diana," Peter said, the last hints of anger fading from his voice as he gave her a strained smile. Okay... Apparently Neal wasn't in trouble. Or maybe Peter was saving it for later. "What's up?" he asked.

"We have a hit on the Snow White bolo," she replied, flashing him an almost wicked grin.

The Snow White bolo? Since when did the Feds track old Disney movies?

Apparently it meant something to Neal's master, because Peter's whole demeanor changed in an instant, his excitement unmistakable. "Where?" Peter questioned urgently, looking like he was a second away from jumping up and down.

"At the airport, boss," the woman—Diana?—said in a brisk tone. "A vintage toy dealer. Customs called him on a collection of handheld games from the 1990s, the ones Tiger Electronics made back in the day. All Snow White. Seems he's been collecting them all over the world. This batch was from Europe."

"Hand held games?" Neal spoke up, his curiosity winning out over his lingering nerves. "This is suspicious?"

"It is when he's brought in six hundred of them in the past six months," Diana said dryly. She raised an eyebrow. "Nice hat."

"Thanks," Neal said, flashing her a smile, though to be honest he was a little annoyed with the damn hat. It sure had caused him a lot of trouble today.

"Okay," Peter said, rubbing a hand across his face. "Man, I am exhausted. Grab me a cup of coffee, and we'll hit the airport, okay? Get Jones on it, too."

"I could get your coffee, sir," Neal said, hoping to regain a little of his lost progress with his Good Slave act. "You know, that being what slaves are for…"

Peter snorted. "I've got something better than slaves. I've got probies to harass. Think of it as hazing for agents to be." He raised his voice. "Hey, Diana, would you grab one for Caffrey, too?"

"Tell him the coffee shop's downstairs," the woman shot back over her shoulder, a sassily amused look on her face.

Peter chuckled, shaking his head. "Man, she's a firecracker, that one." He smirked. "Guess she doesn't like you yet. You'll have to work your magic."

"Hey, she liked my hat, Master," Neal replied, flashing his biggest grin as he ran his fingers along the brim. "Women love the hat."

"Not that woman," Peter said, smirking a little.

"But she said—"

"Let's just say she'd rather be wearing the hat."

Neal frowned. What the hell did that mean? "Excuse me?"

Peter shot him a look. "She'd rather be wearing the hat. You know, the *men's* hat?"

"Oh dear Lord," Neal muttered, shaking his head. "Please tell me that isn't supposed to be a subtle reference to her sexuality. Seriously, Master, I don't think wearing a fedora is the new definition of lesbianism." He cocked his head to the side thoughtfully. "Doesn't the FBI have a policy about that?"

"Don't slaves have a policy about keeping their irritating mouths shut?" Peter shot back. "'Cause you failed that one."

Neal snapped his mouth shut, good humor fading away as he let his eyes drift to the ground. It looked like he hadn't escaped the Wrath of Burke after all. Yeah, the punishment would definitely be coming later.

Peter let out a loud sigh. "Dammit, Neal, that was a joke. What the hell happened to your sense of humor?"

'You stuck me in a prison to be fucked by hundreds of men,' might have been an appropriate response, but Neal didn't figure that would go over well, especially considering how much shit he was already in.

"Sorry, Master," he said carefully, not sure which sin, precisely, he was apologizing for, but more than willing to stick it out there and run with it.

Peter reached out, putting a hand around his shoulders. "No, I'm sorry. I know this is… weird. We'll talk about it later, okay?"

Talk about it later? Talk about what? Neal's little scene with Stephen and Lindsay? His rude ass mouth? His inability to tell a joke from a threat? How much of a beating he deserved for today's mess? All of the above? "Okay, Master," he agreed, flashing Peter a big smile. "Whatever you want. I'm at your service."

"Good. Now let's go catch us some dwarves."


	8. Thanks For Shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which El shops at SlaveMart, Neal admits to having been in an airport, Peter learns about Macintosh slave trackers, and Snow White guy gets euthanized.

Just from looking at the building, it was obvious that SlaveMart was a subsidiary of the WalMart corporation. The logos were similar and the store had that same big box warehouse feel to it. It wasn't much larger than a WalMart, either, which El found strange considering that they claimed to have over a hundred slaves for sale at every store. Or so the coupons she'd fished out of the newspaper stated.

There were four separate coupons on the flier. The first was one ten percent off any slave over a thousand dollars, the next was twenty dollars off the TatMark Salon where they did slaves' facial tattoos, and the third was a fifty dollar gift certificate if you traded in a slave over forty for a newer model. It was the fourth she was interested in, however. Twenty percent off any Kennel Corp brand slave cage.

What a fantastic welcome home present, because *everybody* wants Santa to bring them a cage to sit in.

The automatic doors slid open, and a slave wearing a SlaveMart uniform stepped up immediately. "Welcome to SlaveMart, m'am," the somewhat pimply faced teenager said, his eyes respectfully lowered. "Will you be needing cart service, m'am?"

She smiled at him. "No, I'll push my own cart."

"Of course, m'am," he said, reaching into the bag hanging around his waist and pulling out a small, black receiver. "If you need any help, push the button and a slave will be at your service immediately. Thank you for shopping at SlaveMart, m'am." 

He fell back into the group of slaves that always hovered around the doors at big box stores like this, and El grabbed a shopping cart, though she doubted she'd need it. She wasn't here to buy shackles or paddles, and the cage wouldn't fit in a cart. Better safe than sorry, though. She might see something Neal would want. Not that she had a clue what Neal wanted.

She paused, looking over her shoulder at the boy, who was standing with his hands behind his back, head bowed, just like Neal did. "Actually, you *can* help me with something."

The boy looked up, moving toward her immediately. "How may I serve you, m'am?"

"I'm a first time slaveowner, just got him yesterday, in fact, and I don't really know what sort of things I should buy for him." Or, more to the point, what *Neal* would think she should buy for him. "Could you help me with that?"

"Of course, m'am. If you will follow me, I'll show you to our Customer Service counter. They have pamphlets for new slaveowners that contain a checklist of suggested supplies, m'am."

El smiled at him again and he grinned back cheerfully. "This way, m'am." He took her cart and began to push it toward a large counter at the center of the store. She followed behind, watching him carefully. She didn't usually spend much time thinking about the slaves she saw, which she supposed was the point of slaves, that you didn't need to think about them, but having Neal in her home made her wonder what it felt like to be a slave.

The slave pushing her cart didn't seem unhappy, but how did you judge happiness? In truth, he didn't have much to be happy about, did he? He worked for no pay and had no privileges, after all. But seeing a slave who was noticeably unhappy was rare. Oh, they often looked bored if they were just standing around waiting for someone to serve, but they never seemed annoyed or upset. Either the majority of slaves hid their disgruntlement very well or they weren't totally unhappy being what they were.

"Here you go, m'am," the slave boy said, settling a pamphlet in her hand. "The list is on the back. The numbers in parenthesis beside the items are the aisle numbers where they can be found. Would you like me to stay with you for cart service, m'am, or would you still like to shop unattended?"

"I'll be fine on my own," she said, giving him a nod. "Thank you for your help," she added, just to see how he would respond to being spoken to like a free man.

"Oh, no need for thanks, m'am. I'm here only to serve you." He smiled at her once more, ducking his head politely, then set off back toward the entrance.

The usual response. El didn't think she'd ever heard a slave say 'you're welcome,' but then she didn't see slaves being thanked often, either.

The list in the brochure was pretty skimpy. A cage, a collar or some other marker, restraints, food. All pretty basic, and kind of obvious. El decided to just skim the aisles, see what she found.

The first aisle was food, basically various brands of vacuum packed meals injected with enough vitamins to keep your slave healthy. El wrinkled her nose in distaste as she inspected one, wondering if it tasted as bland as it looked. She set it back on the shelf. Neal could eat out of their own cupboard, damn what people thought.

The next two aisles were various markers. There were dozens and dozens of collars in different sizes, colors, and designs. Peter had mentioned something about a Will Bender brand? She searched around for a few minutes, but didn't see anything by that name. Finally she picked up the little remote the boy slave had given her, clicking it.

When SlaveMart said that a slave would find you immediately, they really meant it, because not even a minute passed before a slave girl about El's age, maybe slightly younger, stepped into the aisle.

"May I help you, ma'am?" she asked politely as she moved toward El.

"I hope so," El said. "My husband was talking about picking up a collar for our new slave today, and I was hoping I could take a look at the one he mentioned, just to see what the features are. I'm not sure of the model, but the brand, I believe, was Will Bender."

The slave girl's eyes widened slightly. "Oh, m'am, I beg your forgiveness, but Will Bender models aren't carried by SlaveMart. They are a very high end company. Their collars start at about two thousand dollars, I believe."

El's mouth dropped open slightly. Two thousand dollars for a collar? And that was the *starting* point?

"The closest we're going to have are these collars over here." She moved down the aisle a little, coming to a stop in front of a section of clunky looking metal collars. "Will Benders have highly sophisticated locking systems. The only way to remove them without the code *and* the physical key is to saw them off. We *do* have this one here," she picked a thick, silver collar off the rack, holding it out to El. "That's from Training Day. They make collars similar to Will Bender, but at much more affordable prices. And here at SlaveMart, we're all about affordable, m'am."

Ell took the collar from her. She was unprepared for the weight and nearly dropped it. The thing had to weigh ten pounds. She couldn't imagine having it around her neck.

"As you can see on the packaging, this is a shock collar, as are all of the Will Bender models. I'm afraid it doesn't have GPS like most Will Benders do. It *does* have an automatic shock function, but instead of setting a GPS radius, you turn on that disk there," she pointed at a round plastic thing in the package, "and the automatic shock is based on how far you get from it. If a slave wearing this model touches the disk, they will be hit with the highest shock level."

"Oh my," El said, trying to take this all in. So the collar Peter was for getting Neal was a *shock* collar? That was a little disturbing. They didn't even use a shock collar on Satchmo.

"There's not actually a safety level on this collar," the slave continued, "because it only reaches a Level 7 on the Triple S."

El frowned. "The Triple S?"

"The Standardized Shock Scale, m'am," the slave girl explained. "Though a few companies have their own rating system, most collars are set up based on the Triple S. Level 1 being a mild shock, similar to what you might get, say, plugging in your Christmas tree lights incorrectly or touching the metal on a plug as you're inserting it into the socket, and Level 10 being similar to the shock given to patients entering cardiac arrest. Most collars only go up to Level 7, which is enough to knock out a slave of average size. 

“The Will Benders go up to the full 10, I believe, and I've heard that you can find them in strengths beyond the Triple S scale in Europe. But even at a Level 10 there's a high likelihood of heart failure, so anything above that is best saved for putting down your unwanted slaves, m'am." She paused, looking thoughtful. "In fact, I would guess that's what they were designed for. I can't think of any other purpose for a shock rating over 10."  
Designed for putting them down? What did you do, just take them into the backyard and electrocute them? What would you do with the body? Dump it in the trash? El knew that the mega slave corps put slaves down all the time and that you could pay a fee to have them euthanize yours. But doing it yourself? That sounded like a serial killer in the making. 

Had any of her friends ever euthanized their slaves? El was starting to feel grateful that Peter had vetoed having slaves when they were first married. It was apparently a much messier business than she'd thought.

El turned the package over, skimming the writing on the back. It didn't make her uneasy feeling much better. Most of it was warnings for owners about not touching their slaves during shock treatment, not shocking a slave on a high level if they were standing in a puddle, not using shock collars on children under five, and, most prominently, that they were not responsible for any injury or death resulting from use of the collar.

"And you say the Will Bender ones go up higher than this one?" she asked quietly as she turned the package back over, the collar within the molded plastic looking so much more menacing than before.

"Yes, m'am, but this is a very good model. Unless you have a very unruly slave, it is unlikely you will need higher than a Level 7 shock, ma'am. And if your slave is very prone to bad behavior, SlaveMart offers intensive retraining programs at affordable prices, with great results." The slave paused, biting her lower lip as she studied the shelves. "There is one… Ah, here it is."

She stood up on her tippy toes, pulling down a package to show to El. Inside was a plastic collar in a bright red color.

"This is a SlaveMart brand collar. It's not steel like the Training Day or the Will Bender collars, but if you're looking for similar shock levels to a Will Bender, this one is good. Though it's plastic, a wire runs through it that, if cut, sends a Level 8 shock through the body. It doesn't have an automatic feature, but using the remote you can set it up to Level 10. It comes in five colors. Personally, I like the pink one, m'am. I think it looks very lovely."

"Our slave is a man," El said absently as she inspected this other collar.

"A male, you mean?" the slave girl questioned. "Actually, pink collars are very popular for male slaves."

El looked up. "You're a pretty good salesman, you know that?"

The slave girl flashed El a big smile. "Thank you, m'am. That's what they trained me for."

"Well," El said, handing both collars back to the girl, "I appreciate your help, but I'm not looking to actually buy a collar today." She paused. "But I *am* in the market for a cage. Could you show me some of those?"

"Of course, m'am," the slave said brightly. "Follow me." She took El's cart and headed off down the aisle with El on her heels. The cages turned out to be on the opposite side of the store, near a large door marked 'Slave Center' that apparently led into a separate section of the building.

"Here are the cages we carry in store, m'am," the slave girl said, pausing at the start of the aisle. El's eyes widened as she looked down it. The aisle had special heavy duty shelves to hold the cages, so it was stacked three cages high on either side. There were at least forty or fifty models.

"This is just display, of course, m'am. If you have transportation to support it, your cage will be put together in the store and placed in your vehicle. If not, it will be delivered free of charge and put together at your home, m'am."

"That… that is a lot of cages," El said, shaking her head in disbelief. "How many variations on a cage can you have?"

"Oh, a lot, m'am," the slave said seriously. "We have all kinds of cages for all kinds of masters, and we carry top brands such as Training Day, Kennel Corp, Lock N Load, and Cellmate. Do you have any idea what kind of features you are interested in, m'am?"

"Uh, no, not really," El said. "The truth is, I've never had a slave before. In fact, this is my first time at SlaveMart. I don't know exactly what I'm looking for in cage." God, those words sounded strange. What she was looking for in a cage? It was weird to be looking for a cage at all.

"Oh, I understand completely, m'am," the slave replied. "I have the honor of helping new slave masters all the time. First of all, tell me a little about your slave and we'll go from there, m'am. You stated it's male. What height and body type are we looking at, m'am?"

"Um, well, he's maybe six feet tall with a slim build," El said.

The girl nodded. "Okay, so here's how cages work. They have sizes, just like clothes, but actually simpler. You have Children, Youth, Female-Small, Female-Large, Male-Small, Male-Medium, Male-Large, and Male-Extra-Large. Beyond that you need a custom cage."

El raised an eyebrow. "There are a lot more male than female sizes," she said.

"That's because a female who is too big for a Female-Large could use a Male-Small or even a Male-Medium, m'am," the slave explained. "Six feet tall with a slim build will be a Male-Small or Male-Medium, depending on how much space you want to give him. Of course, when it comes to space, you also have to take in the model, m'am."

"What do you mean?" El asked.

"Well, just like a size six in baggy jeans will be bigger than a size six in tight jeans, some cages are meant to be smaller than others. All of the cages on display are Male-Medium size so that the actual difference in space can be easily compared."

"Wait," El said slowly, eyes moving over to a tiny cage on her left. "*That* is a Male-Medium?" It looked like a cage for a toddler. Or maybe a chihuahua.

"Yes, m'am," the slave girl said, moving toward it. It was maybe two feet tall, two feet wide, and three feet long. She pointed toward a flyer taped to the front. There was a picture of the cage with a slave inside. He was completely folded over, his legs underneath him and his upper body forward, his chin actually on the ground between his knees. His feet were bent awkwardly so he would fit.

A sick feeling washed over El as she stared at the picture. They put slaves in *that*? "That's just cruel," she said, unable to hide her disgust.

"Well, it *is* a punishment cage, m'am," the slave girl said, still wearing her winning smile. Her people skills kind of reminded El of Neal. "It also has a removable gag and anal insert for further punishment." She paused. "I'm guessing that you're not looking for a punishment cage right now, m'am?"

"No," El said, turning away so she wouldn't have to imagine Neal cramped up in that horrible thing. "Definitely not."

"May I have permission to ask you a few questions to further my ability to serve you in finding the best cage for your needs?"

Wow, that was a mouthful. "Yes, yes, of course," El said. "And so you know, I am open to any and all suggestions. In fact, I would greatly appreciate your input."

"Thank you, m'am. First of all, what is the cage for? Will your slave only be sleeping in it or will he spend all day in it? If a slave is to spend the majority of its time in the cage, it is suggested that an owner purchase a cage tall enough for it to sit up without having to bow the head. Too many years of having the head bent at an extreme angle can cause arthritis and spinal issues, which will not add to the longevity of your slave, m'am."

"Um, just sleeping in it, I guess. He definitely won't be in it all day. We have other things for him to do. But I would want one he could sit up in, absolutely."

"Okay, well that narrows it down, m'am," the slave girl said, smiling. "What about laying down? Our longest Male-Medium cages are just under four and a half feet, which is long enough to stretch the legs out quite a bit. If what you're looking for is space, m'am, one of those would probably be best, if you have room for it. If you plan to keep your slave, say, beside your bed, you may want a smaller model."

"No, long is good," El said, though four and a half feet didn't seem that long to her, honestly. Not when you were six feet tall.

"Okay, well, if you'll come with me, m'am…" The girl started down the aisle, pushing El's cart along. They were almost at the end before she came to a stop, gesturing around her. "These are leisure model cages. Almost every brand has one, though most slave owners go for the standard Male-Medium of 42x42x42 inches. It gives the cage a nice boxy look, takes up little space, and provides enough room for comfort."

"Three and a half feet is comfortable?" El said, more to herself than to the girl.

"Oh, yes, m'am, I guarantee that your slave will be very comfortable with a full forty two inches all around. But, if you want a larger model then the leisure cages are your best bet, m'am."

El scanned the cages stacked around her. They were definitely big, three times as big as the horrible punishment cage, but in the photos the slave still looked distressingly cramped. But Neal had said he wanted a cage and, if what this girl said was correct, this was as big as you could get, which meant that Neal had probably spent plenty of time in much smaller cages.

"This one here is very nice, m'am," the girl said, running a hand along one of the cages. It was attractive, made out of polished cherrywood, though when you looked through the bars the bottom was obviously metal.

"The wood is just decorative," the girl explained as El reached in to touch. "It's a sturdy steel cage underneath the wood, m'am."

"It's very pretty," El admitted. Well, as pretty as a cage could be, anyway.

"The Lock N Load leisure model isn't quite as pleasing to the eye, but it has more amenities," the slave girl said, moving across the aisle over to a shiny silver cage. "The neat thing about this model, m'am, is that it has a built in behavior system for rewarding the good slave. It has bars all around, however, there is a piece that slides out under the bottom that you can insert along one of the long sides so that your slave has a flat surface to lean against when it is good. The door has an optional trust lock so that a faithful, proven slave will be able to exit in case of emergency. The bottom has a removable soft rubber mat, which also makes a good reward, and there is a self-locking hatch on the top so that you can pass food or other things to the slave without having to open the cage. It comes with a fitted fabric cover so that you don't have to throw a blanket or sheet over it when you don't want to look at your slave, m'am."  
"Wow," El said, feeling a little overwhelmed. "That's… Wow." She didn't necessarily mean 'wow' in a good way, but the slave girl seemed to take it as such, because she smiled.  
"It is a very, very good cage, m'am."  
El cleared her throat, reaching into her purse and pulling out the coupons. "I actually have a coupon here for the Kennel Corp brand."  
"Oh, well in that case…" The slave pointed across the aisle to a steel cage. The metal was darker than the Lock N Load, making it look a little more sinister in El's opinion, but otherwise it didn't look much different.  
"The Kennel Corp leisure model has all the amenities of the Lock N Load leisure," the girl said, confirming El's suspicions, "but it also has additional discipline pieces, punishment cages being what Kennel Corp is known for. It has the piece that slides in so your slave has a solid surface to lean on, but it also comes with three other pieces that slide in. When it is bad, you can insert all four pieces, and turn the cage into a punishment box. You can also insert the end panel so that the length is reduced to the standard three and a half feet or to a punishment size of two and a half. 

“The Kennel Corp model's top has a multiple height system so that, along with the side pieces, you can turn it into a true punishment box, forcing the slave into a full discipline posture, m'am. Though we recommend actually lowering it when your slave is *not* in the cage, to lessen risk of injury if it falls. In that mode, you can attach the optional gag and anal pieces, which are included, m'am. Other than that, it's the same as the Lock N Load. It's a little more expensive but, with that twenty percent off coupon, it will actually be a tiny bit cheaper. It will be…" The slave paused, apparently doing the math in her head. "Approximately five hundred and sixty dollars, m'am."

Man, it was a good thing her events business was doing so well.

"Okay," she said. "I guess I'll take it then."

"Wonderful, m'am," the slave said. "Do you have a vehicle to transport it or do you need it delivered?"

"I'm going to need to have it delivered," El said.

The slave girl nodded briskly. "Okay, m'am. I'll go up front to get the paperwork together and have the cage pulled so that it will be ready to ship. Since it's after noon, I am afraid you can't get same day service, but it will be delivered before six PM tomorrow. If you would like to take some time to look around the store, m'am, I should have everything ready in about twenty minutes. Your call button will start vibrating and flashing when everything is ready to go."

"Okay," El said with a nod. "I guess I'll look around for awhile, then."

"Oh, forgive me, m'am, but I forgot to ask… Did you want the Male-Small or Male-Medium?"

"Male-Medium," El said quickly, though she was more inclined to say Male-Extra Large.

"Great. I'll get everything ready for you, m'am. Thank you so much for shopping at SlaveMart."

El waited until the girl had left the aisle to walk closer to the Kennel Corp cage, leaning down to look at the flyer. There were several different pictures, showing all the ways you could reconfigure the cage. In the last one, a tiny section of the cage was blocked off by heavy steel panels on every side. It looked way too small for anyone to actually be inside the little box made by the panels, but apparently it could be done. God, the whole 'punishment cage' thing was just plain disturbing, but the one with the wood hadn't even had a pad at the bottom and this one was cheaper than the Lock N Load. One thing was for sure. All gags and anal inserts were going straight in the trash.

El straightened up and grabbed her purse, abandoning the cart in the aisle. She really didn't think she'd be buying anything else from this store. Of course, she did have twenty minutes to kill. She could go back and look at those collars some more, but honestly she didn't want to think about Neal on a goddamn shock collar. She couldn't believe that was the collar Peter had picked for him.

Did Peter really think that a guy as intelligent as Neal Caffrey needed a *shock* collar? He was smart enough to know that being hit with an electric shock—as bad as it might be and as uneasy as the idea made El feel—was not the worst thing that could happen. She was sure being shocked at a high level hurt like hell and that being knocked out would be terrible, but it wouldn't be as terrible as having all the bones in your left hand snapped or having boiling water thrown in your face, both of which were things El had seen her clients do to a slave who spoke out of turn or snuck a snack without permission. Just the knowledge that Peter could do *anything* to him would be enough to keep a clever slave like Neal in line.

 

It couldn't be that Peter wanted to shock Neal. That was insane. And disturbing. Peter wanted Neal, but he didn't want to hurt him, didn't even want to possess him. He wanted to work with him… and possibly other things that no one had really spoken aloud. 

El wasn't blind, she saw the way he looked at Neal, and she wasn't threatened by a slave. No matter what happened, she would always be the wife and he would always be the slave. Though they both involved love, they were very distinct roles and very different kinds of love. But that was why she was certain that Peter didn't want the shock collar for a little sadistic fun. When he loved someone, he didn't hurt them, he took care of them. That was his personality.

All reasons aside, two thousand dollars for a collar was ridiculous. Was the FBI actually going to pay for the thing? God.

She could probably get reimbursed for the cage, considering that Neal technically belonged to the government, not to them personally, but she really didn't want to. El wanted Neal to feel like it was his, and that would be hard to do if it was actually the FBI's.

The cages were the last aisle in the store, the 'Slave Center' entrance the only thing beyond it. El hovered at the door for a moment, her mind warring over whether or not she wanted to check it out. Part of her wanted to go in, to see what shopping for slaves at SlaveMart was like, to see how they were kept and how they were sold. But part of her was still queasy over the punishment cage thing and she wasn't entirely sure she could handle any more shocking slave stuff today.

Finally her curiosity won out and she stepped through the door, glancing around. She didn't know what she'd expected, but it wasn't this. There were actually *aisles,* just like in the main part of the store, only instead of cages and collars there were people.

Thin metal dividers sectioned it out, and there were signs over each aisle just like in a grocery store. They were categorized by type, from house slaves to sex slaves to office slaves. El stepped into a random aisle, with sex slaves on one side and kitchen slaves on the other. Each one wore a collar similar to the plastic one the slave girl had showed her earlier, plus a chain leading back to rings on the metal dividers. And that was *all* they were wearing, embarrassingly enough. El had seen naked slaves, of course, but having a room full of them was… uncomfortable. At least most of them were kneeling, which helped cover them, though a few were standing with their hands behind their backs.

After a moment El realized that they were lined up by age, the youngest closest to the front and the oldest at back. She stopped before a little girl with dark hair, definitely no older than thirteen or fourteen, staring down at her. There was a card attached to the divider behind her with her picture on it followed by the words Suggested Product Usage: Sexual Entertainment. 

Below that were a list of statistics, including her weight and the size of her breasts, along with a predicted weight and breast size when she was fully grown. There wasn't even a name, nothing to show that the 'product' for sale was a human being and not a blow up doll. There was a red tag stuck to the flier with 'Now only $999 - Lifetime Contract!' printed on it.

She was on sale.

El swallowed down a lump in her throat as she glanced around. If this was a slave's reality, no wonder Neal thought so little of himself. She probably wouldn't think much of herself either if she'd started her life as a list of physical statistics with a sale tag. Here Neal wouldn't be Neal, he'd be Male Slave, Mid-Thirties, Average Height, Slim Build, Suggested Product Usage…

El paused, frowning slightly. What was Neal's suggested product usage. Peter had never mentioned it. Office work, maybe? Waiter? Escort? Something more refined than a kitchen slave or a yard boy. Hm. She'd have to take a look at his registry. 

Hell, for all she knew Neal might have come from this very SlaveMart. He was young enough that slavery had already been pretty well established in the middle class when he was born, if not quite as common as it was now. He could have been bred by SlaveMart.

The sound of footsteps made her look up, eyes falling on a man walking down the aisle, inspecting the sex slave side. He was middle aged, just beginning to bald on top, and wore square, wire rimmed glasses. He was wearing a sports coat thrown over a golf shirt and a pair of khakis, looking relaxed and cheerful.

He came to a stop not far from her, bending over to inspect 'Male, 16 Years, White (Caucasian), Uncut.' The boy looked nervous, though he stayed very still, eyes on the ground.

"Stand up," the man said, and the boy obeyed, climbing to his feet. El's cheeks turned red as her eyes drifted down to his private parts. So *that* was what they meant by 'uncut.'

The man began to inspect him like you would a toaster on a shelf, as if checking for damages. He tilted the slave's head one way, then the other, checked his teeth, looked him up and down, and glanced at his genitals.

"Can you read and write?"

"Yes, sir, I can read and write, sir," the slave boy replied.

"Any health problems?"

"No, sir, I have no known health problems, sir. I have had regular immunizations and dental work, sir."

"What about hormone issues? Acne? Mood swings? Abnormal growth spurts?"

"No, sir. Only normal teenage outbreaks of pimples on my skin, too few to be called acne, sir. No other hormonal issues, sir. I began puberty at twelve, sir."

"Hm." The man stood back, looking the boy over again. "God, two thousand dollars. I thought this was supposed to be a value store." He glanced over at El, an amused look in his eyes. "I really think they overcharge for the young ones. Sure, you get more years out of them, but they're never as well trained as a slave in its twenties."

"I wouldn't know," El said, a little stiffly. "I've never had a young slave. Or a sex slave."

"Efflings are better buys than you'd think," the man said. "They're not very bright, but that's not what you buy an effling for, and they're smart enough to do things like basic chores. Why get a house slave? They're more expensive and they haven't been trained for the bedroom. 

“Efflings are good all around, as long as you're not looking for anything that takes real skill, like office work or a four course meal. And they have high discomfort tolerance, so you can get them smaller cages and take up less space in the house."

El didn't respond to that, didn't really know *how* to respond to that. The extent of her knowledge of sex slaves, efflings, fucklings, whatever you wanted to call them, was having to order play tables for some of her events so that her client could strap one down for the guests to use. She always made a point to avoid that area of the event completely, sending Yvonne or one of her other assistants over there instead, as cowardly as that might be. The one time she'd had to manage that part of a party had been when Yvonne suddenly called in sick.

They'd sent the fuckling over early, wearing nothing but a robe. It was a male, and El had tried her best to engage him in conversation, if only to get her mind off of what he would be used for later, but he hadn't had much to say. He had been very beautiful, with white blonde hair and bright blue eyes, but he'd kind of fit the 'sexy but stupid' image that people used to describe fucklings. Or he could have just been quiet. Who knew? She had hightailed it out of there as soon as she could.

Peter found them really distasteful, El knew that. He saw a *lot* of them when he was working on cases involving rich criminals, and according to him their life's work was pretty much to sit around wearing as little as possible and rub their bodies against their masters like cats. It especially pissed him off when they came on to him, and El knew Peter had once slapped a male fuckling in the face for touching his crotch, 'like a lady in a bar with grabby handed guys,' he'd described it jokingly. 

They were also the type of slave least likely to turn on their master and help the Feds, despite the things their masters did with them, which didn't put them on Peter's good list. El just felt kind of sorry for them. They weren't whores by their own choice, after all. It was sort of like putting a pit bull in a dog fight. Pits were one of the friendliest breeds of dogs, but when you stuck them in an arena and forced them to fight, they eventually turned from sweethearts to killers.

"You know what, I'm going to wait. This kid isn't worth 2k. I'll come back when they have a Red Tag event on males." The man turned on his heel, leaving behind a rather disappointed looking slave boy. Apparently he'd wanted to come home with the guy. El supposed that any home was better than being stuck in a SlaveMart aisle, though.

The receiver in her pocket began to buzz, making El jump a little. Apparently the papers were ready, thank God. El headed back up the aisle toward the door, grateful for the excuse to leave the slave center.

Next time she was definitely ordering online.

o o o

"I'm afraid that you're going to need to check your slave."

Peter blinked. "Excuse me?"

The airport security attendant smiled at him cheerfully, nodding in Neal's direction. "Your slave. You're going to need to check your slave. Slaves are not allowed in the main terminal area. It will be transferred to the human cargo area and you will be able to pick it up at the slave claim when your flight lands."

Peter reached into his jacket, pulling out his badge and flashing it in her direction. "Agent Peter Burke, FBI. I'm not here for a flight. I'm investigating an issue in Customs."

"Oh." The woman's brow wrinkled slightly as she eyed Neal. "I am afraid that you will still need to check him, or leave him outside. There are no slaves in the terminal."

"There are no guns, either, but I can carry mine," Peter shot back. "Now if you'll excuse us, we have work to do."

"Wait!" the lady said, grabbing Neal's arm before he could walk away. "If you're taking him in, he needs to go through the regular metal detector. The slave detector just finds the chip and catalogs its registration. It doesn't actually detect weapons." She paused. "Though I'm not sure if the metal detector will affect his registration device."

"It won't," Neal said, sounding very confidant about that. "I've gone through metal detectors before."

"The airport devices are stronger than your run of the mill detector."

Neal cleared his throat, shooting Peter a meaningful glance. "I've gone through metal detectors before."

AKA, he'd flown as a passenger on an airplane before, which meant he'd impersonated a free man. It was a felony to impersonate a free man. Of course, he hadn't actually *said* anything aloud, so there was nothing Peter could hold against him. Neal sure had talent when it came to saying so much without saying anything at all.

"Right," Peter said. "Go on then."

Neal stepped through the detector. There was a very soft beep.

"That's just the detector flagging that he's a slave," the security attendant said. "Otherwise he's clean. Go on through."

"Thank you," Peter said, the words coming out with a hint of annoyance. Not that he really had a right to be annoyed at the guard. She was only doing her job, but it was a waste of his time. Was it going to be like this everywhere they went, always having to take an extra five minutes dealing with red tape related to Neal's slave status?

"Hey, boss," Diana called out as they approached the holding center.

"Diana," Peter said, striding purposely forward. He noticed that Neal also increased his stride to stay very close to him, head bowed and arms behind his back. Peter really wished he'd stand like a real person. It would make having him in a slave-restricted area a lot easier. "What have you got for me?"

"Like I said, handheld games from Tiger Electronics. The man, Tony Fields, is our vintage toy dealer. He has all the right paperwork. If you come with me, I'll show you."

Peter nodded. "Come on, Neal." Not that Neal needed the order. He was practically glued to Peter's heels. Peter slowed a little, lowering his voice. "Neal, do you think you could walk a little farther back? I feel like I'm going to be run over if I make a stop."

"Oh no, Master, I won't walk into you. I was well trained to watch for signs of an upcoming stop through body tension and speed," Neal replied in a casual voice with a touch of 'isn't that *obvious*?' to it.

Peter gritted his teeth. "Not my point. Just do it, okay? I'm tired of having you halfway up my ass."

Neal made a soft noise, and it was obvious he was hiding laughter from the way his mouth tilted up at the edges. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I'll walk farther away, outside of ‘up the ass’ range." He paused, voice growing hesitant. "May I have permission to walk to the side where you can see me, sir?"

'The words 'in case something happens to me' hung unspoken in the air, making Peter flash back to Diana's words about Neal needing his protection.

"Sure thing, buddy. Walk next to me, okay? Then I don't have to crane my neck to look at you."

Neal nodded and silently stepped up next to Peter. "Yes, sir."

"You guys coming or what?" Diana had her annoyed face on, but Peter could see in her eyes that she wasn't really upset.

"Yeah, we're coming," Peter said, moving over to the door where she was standing. Diana pushed it open and held the door, gesturing for them to enter.

Peter turned to look at Neal. "You go with Diana, start looking at the games. I'm going to have a chat with Mr. Fields."

Neal gave a nod, obediently stepping back so that Peter could enter.

There was only one man in the room, a prissy looking guy with a turtleneck and a deep dimple in his chin.

"I take it that you're Tony Fields?"

"That's me," the man replied.

"I'm Agent Peter Burke from the FBI, Vice Collar division."

The man's eyebrows shot up in obviously feigned surprise. "The FBI? Wow, they're really stepping up their game. And Vice Collar, hm? I didn't realize that handheld games were the new thing for slaves. Perhaps you have a personal interest in children's toys, Agent Burke?"

"I'm more of a dog toys man, really," Peter replied, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring down at Fields. "No kids. Do you want to explain why you have hundreds of the same handheld game in your suitcase?"

"Is collecting toys suddenly a crime?" the man questioned, giving him a pouty face. "I'm a vintage toy dealer. It's what I do."

"But if you've brought in hundreds of the same game, they can't be worth much, can they?" Peter countered. "So why bother?"

"Would you like me to show you how to bust a few illegal auctions, maybe teach you how to confiscate underage fucklings?" the man replied in a sour tone.

"I get it," Peter said dryly. "Because I'm telling you how to do your job. Haha. Very funny. Anyway, I—"

"Excuse me, Agent Burke?"

Peter turned, frowning when he saw a guy in a guard's uniform leading a very large, burly looking man into the room. No, not a man, a slave, Peter realized when it turned its head. There were swirling tattoos covering most of the left side of his face, wrapping around the eye socket then circling around to the mouth, covering everything in between. The slave's head was lowered politely, his hands behind his back.

"Apparently baggage can't hold this guy's slave any longer. We have to bring it in here."

Peter scowled deeply. "I need to talk to Mr. Fields alone. Can you keep him outside?"

The guard shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't leave him unattended in the terminal. Slaves aren't supposed to be here at all, but we've been holding that guy for almost twelve hours and baggage doesn't have the space for it."

"You know what, I think I'll talk to baggage myself," Peter said shortly. He pointed a finger in Fields' face. "We're not done here."

Fields gave a silent nod, though his eyes were locked on his slave, a strange look on his face. Peter frowned, pausing at the door. There was something wrong with—

"Agent Burke, do you want me to call baggage for you?"

Peter turned away and headed toward the guard, letting the door shut behind him. "Yeah, call them up. I'm trying to interrogate that guy and I can't do that with Sally Service on steroids hanging around. They need to come get him."

"What's going on?" Diana asked, walking out of the room next to the holding area, latex gloves still on her hands. Neal followed, moving over to stand next to Peter.

"Damn baggage department sent the guy's slave up here, said they couldn't hold him any longer. I don't want to talk in front of him. He might pass information on."

"Peter," Neal said slowly, a worried look in his eyes. "Slaves aren't allowed in the terminal. If he wasn't picked up within twelve hours, they would transfer him to lost and found near the east parking garage. They wouldn't send him up here."

Peter frowned deeply. "But he was—" He cut off, eyes widening. "Oh crap!"

He dashed off, Diana and Neal quick on his heels, coming to a screeching stop just inside the room. The slave was gone and Fields was slumped over in his chair, a needle hanging out of his neck.

"Dammit!" Peter cursed. "No one frisked the slave? Why didn't you frisk the slave?!" He looked around frantically, like Macho Boy might jump out of nowhere. "And where the hell did he go? The airport terminal is off limits to slaves and the guy had a huge tat on his face! Why didn't anyone stop him?"

"Because he wasn't a slave," Neal said, squatting down to inspect a rag lying on the floor. "Look," he said, hand hovering above it. "See the black? Nobody stopped him because he washed off the tattoo. People don't tend to really look at slaves, which is why being a slave can be such a good cover. People's faces don't fall into the category of latent inhibition, but slaves’ do."

"Of what?" Peter questioned, still staring at Fields' dead body in disbelief.

"Latent inhibition. It's your brain's way of adjusting to the world. Take a doorknob. The first time you saw a doorknob, you probably looked at it very carefully, paid attention to how it worked. But now, you don't even look at doorknobs, and not *just* the doorknob you first saw. You don't look at *any* doorknobs, don't wonder why that particular door has that particular knob, because your brain puts all doorknobs in the same category and doesn't bother even acknowledging them unless something is very different about them. 

“The brain doesn't do the same thing with people, because you are expected to know one person from another, unlike knowing which doorknob was at Johnny's house and which doorknob was at Annie’s house. But it *does* do it with slaves because, like doorknobs, slaves are interchangeable and so your brain doesn't need to waste time memorizing features. Being able to go from slave to free man is a great disguise. No one will be able to say that you were the slave because as a slave you were pretty much invisible to them."

"I remember what he looked like," Peter protested.

Neal raised an eyebrow at him. "What did he look like, Master?"

Peter opened his mouth then shut it again, frowning. "Um, he was a big guy. Brawny. And he had a swirly slave mark. And… and…" His forehead wrinkled up, an uneasy feeling washing over him. "And other than that, I can't remember. What the hell is wrong with me?"

"You remembered what you were supposed to remember, sir," Neal said with a shrug. "You remembered his slave mark. But, unfortunately for us, that slave mark was fake." He stood up, moving over to where Fields was lying dead, bending down to look at the needle sticking out of the man's neck.

"It's from a SlaveMart brand euthanization kit," he said, shaking his head. "I guess our perp decided not to put the included diaper on the body. Hope he didn't void his bowels all over the place." He smirked, looking much more amused than Peter felt.

"I've said it before and I've said it again! Those damn kits should be illegal!" Peter shook his head in disgust. "Talk about making it easy to off someone."

"Well, sir," Neal said, straightening up, "I don't think you're going to get much more out of Fields. Want to take a look at the games?"

o o o

Neal was in an unusually good mood for having just seen a dead body. He *was* sorry Fields was dead, really. Neal definitely did not approve of offing your crew when things went wrong, but it had been a pretty genius setup. 

Enter the airport as a free man, carrying a perfectly legal euthanization kit. Go into the bathroom and paint your face or use fake tattoos to create a noticeable slave mark. Write a note supposedly from the baggage department saying you're the guy's slave. Nobody frisks you because you're a slave and nobody remembers you because you're a slave. Then kill the guy, wash off the tats, and walk out a free man once more.

It was a con Neal had pulled once or twice, though he'd done it backward—and minus the whole killing part. Walk in as a slave so you didn't need an invite to whatever event you were using to gather info. Change clothes and pretend to be a free man interested in whatever you want from the mark to get an idea of the security setup. Make a big point of leaving as a free man, creating an alibi for yourself by setting a date with a lady for later that evening. Come back in as a slave and take the item as quick as possible, making sure that your collar but not your face show on the security feed, then put your free man clothes back on and go to the date. Come back *again* as the free man to console the mark so that if anyone *did* see your face, it would be brushed off due to the fact that a slave stole the item and the mark knows you personally as a free man. Then you have the extra alibi of the date if they begin to think that a free man dressed up like a slave to steal the item.

A great con.

Neal picked up one of the handheld games scattered across the table, holding it up to study it. It was your usual Tiger Electronics/Hasbro toy. There were buttons on either side so you could hold it from behind and play with your thumbs and on the front were images of the seven dwarves from the Disney Snow White film.

"Any idea what the Dutchman could want with these, Neal?" Peter questioned.

Neal tensed, heart speeding up a little. This was his first case, and maybe his only case if they didn't catch the Dutchman. He needed to wow Peter. Unfortunately, the games just looked like games to him. 

He took a steadying breath, trying to clear his head. It was difficult to focus when images of a million dicks of various colors, shapes, and sizes were flashing through your head. He *had* to solve this case. It was life or death, because Neal didn't think he could survive another four years as a prison slave.

"Well," he said, thinking aloud. "Disney's 'Snow White and the Seven Dwarves' came out in 1937, but considering that they were still animating by hand in 1937, these obviously came out long after then. They're all from the same year, 1990, and are the exact same game except for the language differences. Some of them still work, others don't, though it may be a battery issue. They're not worth much individually, or as whole, therefore the value must be in the components. But why exactly the same game? The components should be the same as any Tiger game." Neal looked up at Peter. "Can I pop it open, Master?"

"Go ahead," Peter said, nodding, and Neal did just that, carefully working the top off of the game.

"Hm," he said as he fished around inside the thing. "Yup, just your average late eighties, early nineties game. Nothing sophisticated. Primitive, in fact, compared to current technology. Like a troglodyte to a human. There’s no way these parts could alter modern slave chips, collars, or tracking devices. Back in the eighties, slaves didn't even have internal chips yet because the device was an inch long and half an inch wide. They went on the ankle back then. The first internal chip didn't come out until 1995…" He paused as he pushed a batch of connectors out of the way. "Wait a second…"

"What is it?" Peter questioned, moving so he could look over Neal's shoulder.

"See this memory chip here, sir?" Neal pointed to the slim green piece.

Peter nodded. "Yeah. Is it significant?"

"Well, it's not Tiger Electronics, or Hasbro, either. It's made by Texas Instruments."

"The people who make calculators?" Peter questioned, looking confused.

Neal managed to refrain from rolling his eyes, which he considered a win. "They're best known for their semi-conductors, actually, which are at the heart of all electronics. They're made of silicon, which is where the term Silicon Valley comes from. TI's products are in everything from your lamp to your radio to your computer. And they *did* make toys, up until 1995 when Hasbro and Tiger Electronics bought out the toy division."

"But this is from 1990," Diana said.

"Right. So this device shouldn't have a TI semi-conductor because TI didn't meld with Tiger until 1995." He paused, rather dramatically. "But then this isn't *truly* a TI chip, now is it?"

"Good God, Neal," Peter said, looking slightly exasperated. "Do you want a drum roll? Could we skip the theatrics and go straight to the punchline?"

Neal's cheeks reddened slightly and he dropped his head, good mood fading a little. He really needed to remember his place, not get too familiar with Peter. With the way his new master was acting, it was easy to think of him as generous, even kind. 

Feeding Neal from his own table, letting him use his towel, giving him a desk, rescuing his hat from Stephen. But he couldn't forget that this was the same man who had chosen to send Neal off to be continually fucked and maimed for four years straight. He might have a generous side, but when you displeased him, he was as hard as diamonds.

An urge to submit washed over Neal. Peter was his master, not a friend. This was not Mozzie, this was Peter, and he needed to remember his place around Peter, because if Peter decided Neal needed reminding, it was going to be very, very bad, especially since Neal was certain that Peter would expect him to be grateful for it.

Neal had never been very good at being grateful for punishment. Maybe it was his laissez faire way of doing things, or his attraction to the wrong side of the law, he wasn't sure, but he just wasn't the type to feel thankful for the beating or whatever. In fact, he almost preferred masters who punished you on a whim, just to keep you in line, than masters who only punished for wrong doing.

Masters who punished their slaves for doing something wrong tended to teeter on very high moral pedestals. They expected certain behavior and, if you were bad, then they could righteously punish you. If they whipped the skin from your back, it was for your own good. They were only *helping* you. If you died from wounds along the way, it was sad but no responsibility for it could be placed on *them*. They had no choice but to punish you, because bad slaves deserved to be punished. In fact, they tended to think a slave should be grateful for their correction, because it would certainly make them a better slave.

Talk about self-righteousness.

Unfortunately, Peter fell *very* firmly into this category. He obviously felt no remorse at all for the hell he'd put Neal through for four years, had even said, numerous times, that it was Neal's own fault. And it was, when you got down to it. Neal knew that. If he had never committed crimes, then Peter wouldn't have punished him. But he still couldn't help but feel some bitterness about the extent of his punishment. With any other criminal contract, Neal might have agreed that it was only what he deserved, but being a prison slave was something *no* one deserved. 

Of course, a slave's life wasn't based on fairness. Benji and Charlie and the other slaves at the prison had never committed a single crime, and they would spend their entire lives behind those walls, legs spread in Open House position.

"Neal?" Peter said, a frown coming over his face.

Neal started. "Oh, I'm sorry, Master. The point is, sir, that Texas Instruments’ toy division became part of Hasbro in 1995, but their slave division was acquired by Macintosh in 1988. In 1989, Macintosh immediately came out with a new line of slave registration devices in an attempt to compete with the Microsoft chips that pretty much made up the market. The device wasn't exactly an iPhone, however, and it failed spectacularly. It was discontinued in 1990 and the unused electronics were sold off to other companies.

"Wait, so you're saying that Apple made this chip?" Peter questioned. "For slave registrations?"

"Macintosh, sir," Neal corrected. "Macintosh was still just one of several divisions of Apple Computers back then. They dealt in home computers, obviously, and since a slave registration device is a low level computer, they wanted in on that, too. But Microsoft ruled the computer market back then."

"So somebody is using these memory chips to, what, recreate some sort of device from this era?" Diana said, taking a look.

"Something made by Macintosh," Neal said. "That's what I would use it for, anyway. Though why you would want so many, I don't know. There's a market for forged chips, that's how traders sell undeclared slaves illegally, but they want small quantities, and they sure don't want anything from 1990, Agent Barrigan. Out of body registration devices are no longer legal. A slave has to be chipped internally, m'am."

"So what are they using them for?" Diana asked, looking thoughtful.

"I don't know," Peter said, "but I bet our vintage toy dealer did. Diana, where's that wallet?"

"Right here," she said, picking up a small plastic tub and tossing the wallet to him.

He flipped it open, shuffling through its contents for a moment. "Huh. Look where our boy was yesterday." He held out a card with the words 'Visitor—National Slave Registry' printed on it, with 'Tony Fields' scribbled in pen below." He flashed a smile at Neal. "Let's take trip. National Slave Registry, here we come."

Neal managed to keep the terror off his face just long enough for Peter to turn his back, then it was full scale panic.

He was *so* going back to jail.


	9. Seize and Destroy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter learns a little of Neal's past, Neal pulls a con at the Slave Registry, and El plays the therapist.

He was going back to prison. There was no other choice. He had to go back to prison.

Tears rose up in Neal's eyes as he stared silently out the passenger side window. Maybe he could still escape his fate. He could fake a seizure, maybe, or make himself puke? Anything to keep him out of that building. But something like that would only make Peter suspicious. Peter wasn't an idiot, after all, and having a sudden seizure right before he walked into the building housing all the information he was known for forging would definitely raise the warning flags.

There was no other choice. He was going back to the jail. He was going to be a prison slave again, possibly for the rest of his life. He would spend his nights tied tightly to the bed and his days being fucked over and over again by smelly men. The only question now was what he wanted to do to get sent back. Try and run, perhaps, or steal Peter's car? Grab a lady's purse or punch a free man in the face? Try and stab someone with his tie pin? All prison worthy offenses. No other choice.

'No other choice' was technically a lie, of course. There *was* another choice. Usually Neal wouldn't consider it a choice at all, not if he had a single other option, but in this case it was worth at least a few moments of review.

He could die.

Neal wasn't sure where slaves went when they died, maybe up to Heaven to serve the saints? More likely down to Hell to serve the devil. It didn't really matter. He'd find out someday, probably not so far from now. Beyond forty slaves were very hard to sell, and the megacorps put them down by the hundreds. But he'd sort of banked on having another decade to live. 

There were so many things he'd planned to do, so many people he needed to say goodbye to. Mistress, Mozzie… Okay, maybe the list of people wasn't so very long. But if he took the choice-that-wasn't-a-choice, he wouldn't even have time to say farewell to them.

If Neal took the choice-that-wasn't-a-choice, he would be dead within the hour.

Did he really want to do that? Was prison slavery so bad that he would really leave this earth without ever seeing Mistress again? Was he that cowardly?

Neal thought maybe he was.

"That was a good job back there, with the electronics," Peter said, his rough, deep voice surprisingly comforting, making Neal feel safe yet again for a reason he couldn't quite comprehend. God bless brainwashing and all it's comforting aspects. "I never would have caught that."

"Hm," Neal replied, keeping his face turned away so that his master wouldn't see his tears, wouldn't see the panic and the fear in his eyes.

Master Peter was a good man. Maybe he could be persuaded to help Neal. Neal hadn't exactly made himself indispensable in the man's life yet, but maybe there was a chance. His crime wasn't something he could be arrested for. It had happened too long ago, when he was too young for it to be considered a criminal offense to take part in a master's crime. But the fact still was, crime or no crime, he was supposed to be dead. The crime had nothing to do with the death sentence.

Peter was a do-gooder. He always did the right thing, always stuck by the letter of the law, and the law said that Neal should be dead. The right thing to do, the honorable thing to do, would be to walk Neal to the euthanasia room himself and watch while they put the needle in his neck. To beg for his help would be asking him to break the law *and* to violate his moral code by keeping Neal's crime a secret. Somehow Neal just didn't see that happening.

Maybe Neal should open the car door and jump out as they drove. He'd survive the fall, then he could run and run and run until he reached the edge of his radius and passed out from the shock. There would be no way he could recover from a high level shock soon enough to visit the Slave Registry. But then he'd go back to prison scratched and wounded.

He wished he'd been able to contact Mozzie in the last day, but he hadn't had time. Moz was about the only one he'd trust to try and cut the collar off of him. Of course, he hadn't expected to be trying to escape. Escape had not been a part of his plan. But now with his choices being death or despair, the idea was looking pretty good.

"Hey, are you okay over there?" Peter asked, sounding genuinely worried.

Neal didn't answer, keeping his eyes on the passing scenery. That coffee shop had lovely azaleas in the planters up front. Funny to think this might be the last time he saw azaleas.

What to do, what to do, what to do? The Slave Registry was looming down the block, and Neal still didn't know what he should do. He felt paralyzed by fear, caught between two terrible options. He didn't want to have to choose, didn't want to have to take that responsibility upon himself. It wasn't a slave's job to take responsibility for his future, it was the master's.

Neal paused at the thought. It was the truth. He shouldn't have to make this choice. It hadn't been his choice to commit his first crime all those years ago. His master had told him to lay down on his stomach and not to cry. Mozzie, though at the time Neal knew him only as 'The Dentist,' had given him a rag to bite down on and promised to make it as quick as he could. Twenty minutes later it was done, and Neal was proud of the fact that he hadn't shed a single tear.

It hadn't been his choice then. Why should it be his choice now? It was time to come clean, to tell his master the truth, then it would be Peter's decision whether Neal deserved the easy death he had managed to escape for the past two decades or to spend the next two decades in a dungeon with a pretty name attached. And maybe, just maybe, there was some small hope that Peter would recognize that Neal was too valuable to throw away over things from the past and would decide it was worth the risk to keep him around.

Mind made up, Neal took a deep breath, his decision to let Peter decide calming his nerves a little. It was out of his hands now.

Now all he had to do was work up the courage to tell him.

o o o

Neal was refusing to budge.

Crouched down against one of the big pillars in front of the Slave Registry, half hidden by a Greco-Romanesque statue of a kneeling slave, Neal had spent the last six—no, make that seven—minutes retying his shoelace.

He was wearing loafers.

Eight minutes.

Peter sighed loudly. Okay, enough of this. It had been weird enough that Neal had spent the entire car ride over in utter silence, staring out the passenger side window and answering Peter's questions in 'hm's and 'huh's. This was just ridiculous.

"Okay," Peter said, crouching down next to the young slave. "Talk to me, boy."

Neal stiffened as he looked up slowly. There was a tinge of fear reflected in his eyes, but he still managed to smile up in obviously feigned innocence. "About what, Master?"

Snarky brat. If he hadn't been white as a sheet, Peter might have come back with something equally snarky, with a little sarcasm on top, but considering that Neal looked like Michael Jackson's ghost, he held himself back.

"Why, exactly, are you hiding behind a statue wasting time instead of walking through the doors to help me track down what the Dutchman is up to?" Peter questioned, maybe a little sternly from the way Neal winced. He softened his tone, reaching out to put a hand on the slave's shoulder. "Talk to me, buddy."

Neal's eyebrows shot up. "I'm your buddy now, Master?" There was a hint of amusement to his tone, which was an improvement from the white-as-snow look.

"Yeah, I think we're buddies," Peter said, chuckling a little. "Don't you think we're buddies? I think we're buddies."

The color had returned to Neal's face and he was no longer leaning away from Peter's touch. "Sounds good to me, sir."

"So… What is the problem?"

Uh-oh, pale faced Neal was back. He licked his lips nervously, ducking his head.

"Neal," Peter said, voice serious. "Tell me what's going on. That is an order, boy."

Neal made a face, rubbing at his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Master, I… I… I…" He paused, taking a deep breath, like he was steeling himself. "Ineedtoconfessacrime," Neal blurted out, not meeting Peter's eyes.

Peter blinked. What? "Excuse me?"

Neal looked up, his eyes wide. "I need to confess a crime, Master."

Peter sat back on his heels, mind spinning a little at this. Neal Caffrey wanted to commit a crime? *Now*? In the middle of the case he'd practically begged Peter to let him in on? What was going on?

"Neal," he said slowly, "you know that I am required by law to arrest you for any crimes you admit to."

"I know," Neal said quietly. "But if I walk into that building then you're going to find out, anyway, because… Because I'm going to set off an alert."

He was going to set off an alert? What did that even mean?

"What, because you're a forger? Do they have a watch on you? Because that won't matter, Neal. You belong to me, so anything you do is my responsibility. If I go in, you can go in." Peter shifted to a more comfortable position, sitting against the wall instead of squatting, and Neal mimicked him, long legs stretching out next to Peter's.

"No," he said quietly. "I'm going to set off an alert because…" He paused, swallowing hard. He took off his hat, beginning to play with it nervously. "I'm going to set off the alert because SlaveMart has an S&D on me."

Peter stared at Neal in shock, mouth forming an 'o.' Neal had a Seize and Destroy on his head? 

"I don't understand," Peter said, a little shakily. "If you had an S&D on you, we would have been alerted."

Neal swallowed hard and looked back up at Peter, wind rustling his curls. "You would have, if it hadn't been deleted from my registration when my chip was changed out. Hence the crime."

Peter sat back, letting his head smack against the stone of the building as he stared at nothing, still trying to process the meaning of the words. Dead. Neal was supposed to be dead. 

"Why would they do that?" Peter demanded, turning his face back toward Neal. "You've been on government contract for the last four years, and you're not sick—why would they put an S&D on you?"

"Master… I've had a Seize and Destroy on my records since I was nine," Neal said quietly, hands clenching the brim of his hat tightly. "It was washed from public records, and my chip was replaced. But it's routine to test the DNA of slaves entering the Registry, and it will bring up the alert."

"Why?" Peter asked softly. "Why did they put an S&D on you at nine years old? What could you possibly do at nine worthy of a Seize and Destroy?"

Neal raked a hand through his hair. "Do you remember the Matthew Keller case?"

Peter nodded slowly. "Yeah, he was a criminal slave with connections to SlaveMart. Belonged to the CFO. They were accused of creating a department to sell underage sex slaves at SlaveMart by changing their age to read '12 as of' and then inserting the month equivalent to the number of years you should subtract from 12 to get their actual age. They gave Keller an automatic three year criminal contract, but there wasn't any hard evidence to pin on the CFO, and Keller ended up with a cushy contract actually working as an office slave *for* SlaveMart."

"There was a reason you couldn't put together enough evidence to pin anything on that CFO," Neal said quietly. "They wiped it all away. Or I guess I should say they euthanized it."

Wait a second… No way. There was no way, was there? "Are you saying that you were one of those slaves?" Peter asked in disbelief.

Neal nodded his head. "Yes, Master," he said, the words coming out pained. "They put an S&D on us all, claiming severe behavioral problems, possibly psychotic disorders. I had already been sold, however, and my master liked my body too much to turn me over to SlaveMart. Instead he took me to a man who specializes in registration forgery and had my chip replaced so that SlaveMart wouldn't be alerted when I was scanned."

"He liked your body too much at *nine*?" Peter questioned, shocked.

Neal shrugged. "I've always been pleasing to the eye, Master, even when I was a child." He swallowed hard. "Master Peter, please, I can't go in there." His eyes were bright, like he was on the edge of tears. "If I go in, they'll take me into the euthanasia room and put me down. I know that it's the right thing to do, that the chip in my neck is illegal and that a breeder's recall of a batch of slaves supersedes an owner's rights as long as they receive monetary reimbursement, but please, Master. Peter. Master Peter. 

“I don't want to go back to prison, and I don't want to die. Nothing is really different than it was. I'm exactly the same, the situation is exactly the same, I can still help you find the Dutchman. And I swear, I will make keeping me around worth your while. I made it worth it for the master who had my chip replaced, and later for the man who put it in, too. I can be very, very useful. Very useful. So please, don't put me down, and don't send me back. I'm sorry I didn't tell you up front, but *please.*"

Peter closed his eyes, trying to hold back the strange mix of anger and pity he was feeling. He wasn't even sure who he was angry at. Neal, for once again turning something simple into a complex, illegal mess? SlaveMart, for using a practice meant for removing batches of slaves discovered to have transmittable illnesses like AIDS to cover their own asses and hide their crimes? Himself, for having let one more child slave slip through the cracks when he should have saved it?

Hell, he was angry at them all.

The law was something Peter firmly believed in, however, there were times when the law was just a little too cut and dry. There *were* shades of grey in the world, and this was definitely one of them. He opened his eyes slowly, trying to hide just how much it pained him to hear Neal beg Peter for his life. He couldn't even imagine how it felt to start out your day thinking that everything was fine then end up standing outside a building knowing full well that if you step inside you'll be escorted to your death within ten minutes.

"Neal," he said softly, "you are not going to die today. I promise. You've lived twenty-one years with an S&D on your head. I don't think putting you down now is exactly a priority. Look at me, Neal," he said in a commanding tone when Neal continued to stare down at the concrete.

The slave raised his head slowly, like it was painful to do so, his eyes finally latching on to Peter's.

"I can't promise that you'll never go back to prison, I can't promise that you'll never be punished, and I can't promise that you will never be euthanized, because sometimes things are out of my hands. But I swear to you that, as long as I have *any* power to decide what happens to you, any at all, you will not be put down. No matter what you do, I will not put you down and I will not let anyone else put you down. You will not die on my watch, Neal."

Neal made a soft sound, somewhere between a sob and a whimper and Peter reached out, wrapping an arm around him and pulling the slave's slim body against his.

"Why?" Neal asked, voice a little hoarse. "Why would you promise that? Even Mistress never promised that."

God. Peter swallowed down the lump growing in his throat. 

"I don't believe in euthanizing slaves, Neal. I won't do it, and I'm not going to help someone else do it, even if the law says it's right. My personal ethics are what I live by. These usually mesh just fine with our Constitution, but putting down a human being because you don't want them anymore is not okay. It's murder. I don't give a shit if you're a slave. You walk and you talk, you love and you hate, you think and you learn. You may not be considered a man by the courts, but you're damn well not an animal. I've always said it was murder. Ask my co-workers sometime. They are well aware of my feelings regarding euthanasia."

"But Peter," Neal said softly, eyes looking wide and vulnerable, "I'm a criminal."

"Putting you down, or standing by while someone else puts you down, would make me the criminal, boy," Peter said in a matter of fact voice, wanting Neal to realize that this wasn't just an off the cuff promise he would break in a temper. "And it would be a crime much, much worse than any silly heist you've pulled. We're not equals, Neal. You belong to me, which gives me say over what you do. But we're both human beings, and I feel there are certain rights that come with being human. The right to live a natural life is one of those, and an owner should not be able to violate it."

"Wow, I bet you piss a lot of people off with that one, Master," Neal joked, a little weakly, but that was to be expected considering he'd really believed that Peter was going to march him into the Slave Registry to die.

"Yeah, it's not a favorite of most people. I kind of have to hold my tongue sometimes." Peter sighed. "Look, buddy, that little chat tonight I was talking about? I think there are quite a few things we need to discuss, maybe get El in on the conversation since she seems to have some clue what's going on. To be honest, I'm confused as hell. I've never had a slave before, and it seems like I stomp on your toes every time I open my big mouth. I'm not here to hurt you, though, Neal, and I want you to know that. Even if you fuck up, I'm not here to hurt you."

Neal kind of frowned at him, a slightly suspicious look in his eyes. "Of course, Master."

Of course, Master. Or course, of course, of course, master. Peter was starting to think that was Neal's default answer to anything he wasn't sure about. A way of appeasing the man in charge. Sort of an 'I have no idea what the crap you're talking about, but of course, Master' or an 'Of course, Master, because I can't exactly say “hell to the no,” Master.’

"All right," Peter said, climbing to his feet. "Let's go take a look at whatever Field was so interested in."

Neal stood as well, carefully straightening out his clothes. "Master," he said, eyeing the building, "I can't go in."

Peter snorted. "Sure you can." He grinned. "Well, as long as you're not a slave."

o o o

Neal managed not to flinch away as Peter reached out suddenly, turning up the collar on Neal's shirt and tightening the tie until it was almost choking him. Neal stood as still as he could, banking his safety on the theory that Peter was not planning on starting an erotic asphyxiation scene on the front steps of the Slave Registry. His theory was confirmed as the man stepped back, tossing him a smile.

"There. Goodness Mr. Caffrey, considering how well you dress, you'd think you'd have learned to tie a decent knot in your tie. Such a messy look."

Neal opened his mouth and then shut it again, not sure what to say. What was Peter getting at?

"But hey, I didn't hire you straight out of college for your fashion sense, I hired you for your uncanny knowledge of late-eighties, mid-nineties slave registration devices."

Oh. *Oh.* Neal's eyes widened slightly. Peter wanted him to run a con? To play a *free man*? That was a *felony.* A rather harmless felony, but a felony nevertheless.

A Fed approved felony. That sounded fun. Maybe it would help work off some of the adrenaline still rushing through his veins from admitting to Peter that he had an S&D on his head.

Neal stepped forward, flashing a smile. "What can I say? The skinny end always winds up longer than the fat end. Stupid ties."

Peter chuckled as they walked through the door of the Slave Registry. Off to one side was the slave queue, where they scanned your registration device and pricked your finger to run the DNA.

Looking at it put Neal on the edge, but he took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. Peter had promised he wouldn't put Neal down, and Peter seemed like the kind of guy who kept his promises. *Why* Peter had promised he wouldn't put Neal down, though, was something he couldn't even begin to understand. There was absolutely no reason for Peter to make that kind of promise. 

Neal guessed he understood Peter's little spiel about ethics, but it was hard to imagine a free man seeing euthanasia as murder. And he'd sworn that he'd *never* put Neal down. That seemed like a nice sentiment, but Neal knew all it really meant was that Peter didn't plan to keep him long enough to need to put him down. Forty was usually the age when they started offing slaves, so he could stay with Peter a good, long time, but being resold in his late thirties would be horrible. He'd probably end up in a brothel because of his pretty face.

'I will never put you down' was a pretty strong statement, especially because it eliminated a fear that could be used to control your slave. Neal didn't think Mistress would ever have really put him down, but the time she'd found out that he'd lied about where he was going and run off to Europe to help Alex, she had bought a kit from SlaveMart and left the needle sitting on her bedside table for a month. Finally, after much begging and submission, she had thrown it away, but not before warning Neal that if he ever tried to con *her* again that it would be the last thing he ever did.

Having been promised that he'd never be put down by Peter was… comforting. Of course, it had come after the promise that if he stepped out of line Peter would gladly send him back to the prison, but Neal had already known that. 

One of his worst nightmares had always been of being put down. He'd imagined himself slowly making his way to the place where he would die, usually a bathroom. Climbing in the tub so that if anything went wrong and there was vomiting or bowel movements that it would be easy to wash away. Waiting in silence, head down, while his master prepared the needle, tears running silently down his face as he performed the Last Act of Obedience, as slaves called it.

Neal had seen a lot of slaves put down. When he'd infiltrated SlaveMart, he'd seen hundreds put down at once, delivered once a month from all over the state to SlaveMart's Euthanasia Compound, more sadistically known as the concentration camp, and herded by the dozen into small chambers that would slowly fill with gas. There was a reason you almost never saw an old slave. Going by the scale of a slave's average lifespan, Neal was well over the hill. In fact, he might as well be looking for nursing homes, trying out walkers, and getting himself a button to click in case he fell and he couldn't get up.

Neal's rather morbid thoughts were interrupted as one of the Register employees stepped forward, his eyes widening a little when Peter flashed his badge.

"Oh my," the man said, resting a hand on his chest. "The FBI. How can I help you, Mr…"

"Agent Peter Burke," Peter said, making a motion for Neal to step forward. "And this is my assistant and slave chip expert, Neal Caffrey."

"Hello," Neal said in as charming a voice as he could manage.

"It's nice to meet you, Agent Burke, Mr. Caffrey. Is there something you need from the Registry?”

"Actually," Peter said, digging into his pocket for a picture of Field. "We were wondering if you'd seen this man."

The employee smiled. "Oh, yes! Tony Field. A lovely man." His smile faded a little. "Is he in trouble?"

"Actually, he's dead, I'm afraid to inform you. Murdered," Peter said, putting on a rather good sad face. "We're looking into the matter. We think that his death may have had some relation to the work he was doing, and we were hoping you could help us with that."

"I can, actually," the man said, looking a little sick. Neal supposed you didn't hear every day that someone you'd met was murdered. "He was writing a book on the Apple Macintosh 1990 registration crisis. It's too bad he's dead. It's a fascinating subject."

"The 1990 registration crisis?" Peter questioned, glancing at Neal.

"It happened just after their new chip failed," Neal said. "Steve Jobs found Buddha and, scared off his ass that karma would come back and bang him in his pie hole, he not only shut down their slave division, he actually wasted the database. Since back then for the government to acknowledge your registration you had to actually call up the company and request a certified copy of the registration, this *really* pissed people off, Mas—Agent— especially those who didn't have a hard copy of the registration at all."

"That is a correct, if a somewhat crude, summary," the Registry employee said, making a small face. "Mr. Fields was particularly interested in the device. In our museum section we have the only known surviving device, taken right off the foot of a slave sold in 1989 with the Macintosh chip. Apple destroys all slave devices that come to surface, no longer having a slave department. They melt them down. We've managed to keep this one out of the oven."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Really? Do you think we could take a look at it?"

The employee smile and gestured for them to follow him. "Of course. If you'll come with me…"

Neal walked a few paces behind Peter, taking time to look around. He had never been in the Slave Registry, for obvious reasons, but it was just as impressive as he'd heard. God, it was like a forger's dream. Banks of computers flashing through profiles as slaves were tagged by registration scanners all over the country, shelves full of leather bound hard copies of registrations for every slave ever bought or sold in the United States. Fantastic, really.

The museum was awesome as well, dozens of different kinds of registration chips from over the years behind glass as well as some very famous pieces of art depicting slavery through the ages.

"You look like a kid in a candy store," Peter said under his breath as the Registry employee came to a stop before a glass case.

"I'll be good, I promise, sir," Neal said in an overly sweet tone, just for the pleasure of seeing Peter roll his eyes.

"I'll believe it when I see it."

"Here it is," the employee said, smiling down at the case. Inside was a simple black metal box, about an inch long and a little shorter than it was wide, with a heavy metal band attached. Printed on it was a rainbow colored apple. "The 1989 Macintosh Track Dog."

"Too bad they didn't name it the iTrack or it might have taken off," Peter said dryly, making Neal chuckle. "Could you open the case so we could get a better look?"

"Sure," the employee said, pulling out his keys. He opened the stand below the device and pressed a button that made the shelf slowly descend until he could pull it out.

"So," Peter said, giving Neal a little push. "Work your magic, oh assistant of mine."

While it was nice to know Peter had faith in him, it was a little nerve-wracking, too. He wanted to wow the man more than ever now that he knew his death wasn't on the radar anytime soon. To have a master who promised he wouldn't put you down was one in a million.

"May I open it up?" Neal asked, not actually waiting for an answer before he popped open the casing. Inside was a complex mess of hardware, rudimentary compared to registration devices today. "Well, look at that," he said as his eyes fell on a memory chip. It was identical to the ones in the Snow White games.

"It's too bad that Mr. Field is dead. This device has such an interesting history."

"You mean the whole Steve Jobs thing?" Peter questioned. "With the Buddhism and the database?"

"Well, yes, but also with the reimbursement value."

Neal looked up. "The reimbursement value?"

"Why yes," the man said, smiling. "Wiping the database caused an uproar. Over three thousand of these devices had been sold to the public. Once the database was wiped, the registration was no longer considered valid to the state because these devices were so easily tampered with compared to the modern implants. Therefore people had to go through the trouble of having their slaves re-registered completely, starting from scratch. They had to either pay someone certified by the Registration Board to trace back the slave's history or take the slave to this Registry to be identified, then they had to file a petition, something that could take over six months. 

“In this time they couldn't sell the slave, but they couldn't take the slave out in public, either, not without the registration. A group of people got together and sued Apple Computer for damages. Each party was awarded twenty-five thousand dollars. It was a major punch to the gut, and Apple almost drowned. They managed to pull through, however, since there were only about two hundred people involved in the lawsuit. However, in 1998 another group of disgruntled owners came forward after discovering one another on the internet. They never did get organized, but over a thousand people claimed to have old Macintosh devices that were removed and discarded."

"So someone could still file another lawsuit against Apple if they had one of these things?" Neal questioned.

"No," Peter answered before the Registry man had the chance to reply. "It's been too long. Beyond the statute of limitations."

"Ah, yes, but just after Steve Jobs' death a group came forward regarding the 1990 registration crisis and, to avoid bad press, Apple offered the full twenty-five thousand dollar settlement to everyone who could produce a registration device *and* the papers for the slave matching the information on the device. They've done so well that it's better to just pay off those involved than to have to deal with a possible media uproar, particularly at a time when Microsoft is working hard to become competitive once again in the fields Apple now dominates."

"So if you produced one of these devices and the registration of a deceased slave of the correct age that matched the information on the device, then you could cash in on twenty-five thousand dollars," Neal said slowly.

Peter raised an eyebrow. "You think that's what they're trying to do?"

Neal gave a shrug. "It's what I would do. He's right. Apple is a huge corporation now, and huge corporations would rather pay people off than deal with negative media, and they probably assume that there are only a few people out there who haven't tossed these things in the trash. It would be a fairly easy con since it was over twenty years ago and most slaves only live to about forty, meaning that very few of the slaves are still alive. Since Jobs deleted the databases, Apple can't claim that your slave wasn't in it, not if it matches the data on the device.”

“Wouldn’t it be a little suspicious if hundreds of these appeared out of nowhere after so long?” Peter questioned.

Neal shook his head. “Not if they used an avalanche scheme. Basically, one person comes forward, gets their money, and that triggers someone else to come forward. Then another, then another, then the masses hear about it and suddenly the devices are everywhere. It takes a few months to pull off, but you'd need a few months to create the identities for the devices. Also, companies handle these things through lawyers, so it wouldn't be suspicious to have one lawyer handle the cases of hundreds of people. All you have to do is make replicas of the devices and cash in. If all 2,400 people claimed their cash then that would be…" He paused. "Sixty million dollars. And even if you kept the number lower to avoid suspicion, say, 1,000 people instead of the full 2,400, that's still twenty-five million dollars. Pretty good for something that you can make out of spare parts."

"But what about the slaves?" Peter countered. "Don't you think it would be suspicious that they're all dead?"

"So you get a few, maybe a hundred or so, older slaves and put their identities into the forged devices," Neal said. "People don't want older slaves, so you could get them free. Hit SlaveMart on a euthanasia day and take three hundred slaves home with you in a couple of eighteen wheelers. It would be a long con since you'd have to create an identity for each individual slave, but it would be worth the payoff since a lot of it would be copy/paste. Twenty-five thousand dollars for an hour's work is pretty good, Mas—I mean, Agent Burke. That's when you get your lawyers to agree to settle in a bundle and parcel it out themselves to save Apple the trouble. It's not a bad scam. Pretty elegant, actually. Way more than you can make from most registration scams. This guy is a pro, sir."

"Yeah, he is," Peter agreed. "He definitely is. I wonder why Field came here twice, though? Wouldn't seeing it once be enough?” Neal frowned, lifting the device close to his face.

"Hm, a good question. I—" He cut off, frowning, then brought the device closer, sniffing loudly. "Oh, shit."

"What is it?" Peter asked.

"This is a fake."

The Registry man laughed, shaking his head. "No, it's not."

Neal raised an eyebrow in his direction. "Yes. It is."

He huffed. "It can't be. It's been here for twenty years."

"It's been here less than a day. Look, you can still smell the industrial glue. *Really* smell it. That smell should fade completely in a couple of weeks. This device isn't twenty years old, it's brand new."

"Damn," Peter said as he leaned in to sniff. "That's strong."

"Oh my God," the Registry worker said as he sniffed, his face going pale. "What happened to our device?!"

"I don't know," Neal said, "but it sure ain't here."

o o o

El looked down at the notepad in her lap, tapping her pen against her leg as she tried to figure out just how she wanted to do this.  
After her trip to SlaveMart, she felt she could understand a teeny bit better where Neal's head was, or at least where it wasn't. It *wasn't* up in the clouds, flying high on a magic carpet of cockiness and capability like her hubby thought, but she didn't think it was down there with the sad looking kids sitting in those aisles, either. 

Neal was too funny, too social, too outgoing to fall into the same category as the dull-eyed options at SlaveMart. When he felt comfortable, he was smart and witty and charming, just like Peter had described him. But when he was nervous, he became a shell of that person. The occasional brazen remark would still slip out once and awhile, but it would be immediately followed by fear.

Unfortunately, she was pretty sure that while her honey saw the cocky side, he totally overlooked the fear. Peter had strong definitions of who 'Neal Caffrey' was, and subconsciously he was forcing Neal into them, even if they didn't really fit who the slave was.

Licking her lips she wrote 'Expectations' at the top of the page, underlining it. Underneath it she began a column, starting with 'Food' then 'Sleeping Arrangements' then 'Bathing' then 'Chores' so on and so on down to 'Personal Time' and 'Privileges'.

Skipping a few lines she wrote 'Behavior,' underlining that as well. Under it she wrote 'Definition of Good Behavior' and, under that, 'Consequences/Results of Good Behavior'. Next was 'Definition of Bad Behavior,' then 'Consequences/Results of Bad Behavior.' Swallowing hard at the memory of the punishment cage, she added a category for 'Acceptable Punishments' and 'Acceptable Rewards.'

Okay, that was a good start. It would get the boys thinking, anyway. She tore off the sheet and quickly transcribed it all onto another piece of paper, then tore that off the pad as well. She paused, considering making one for herself, but she really wanted to be able to act as the mediator between them. 

Besides, she could tell from the way Neal acted that he considered Peter the master. He might consider El a secondary power figure, but Peter was the one he looked to before doing anything, even if it was something El had told him to do.

Basically, Peter was the one Neal was afraid of. Hopefully they would fix that tonight.

She left the papers sitting on the coffee table, heading back into the kitchen to check on the pasta. Peter had called to say they were stopping by the National Slave Registry to check out a lead, but they should be home soon. Thankfully she'd managed not to burn spaghetti, which would be pretty embarrassing considering that she was an events planner and it was the easiest thing in the world to make, shy of a ramen noodle cup, but her mind had been in another place since her SlaveMart visit.

On the way home, El had decided that if the three of them were going to make house together, certain things needed to be cleared up. Laying down boundaries and rules might be embarrassing for her and Peter, but she was pretty sure it was killing Neal not to have them. And why wouldn't it? If he didn't know the rules then he had no idea what he might or might not be punished for.

Look at what a scene it had caused last night at dinner, with Peter getting grumpy while Neal did his best to figure out his new master's unspoken rules. Just adding to the stress was the fact that, if the shock collars and punishment cages El had seen at SlaveMart were any example, their 'unspoken rules' were a lot different than some other masters'. Mostly because there weren't any rules that weren't common sense, to her and Peter at least. But Neal came from an entirely different background, and she had a feeling his idea of 'common sense' was a lot different from theirs. Hence the lists.

If she could get Neal and Peter to sit down and answer some of the same questions about their situation then compare them, she hoped it would help them all understand where each other's minds were and find a comfortable middle ground. It was worth a try, anyway.

Just as El took the pot off the stove, she heard the front door open, her honey's voice ringing out through the house.

"Hey, hon, we're home!"

Elizabeth quirked a smile at that. 'We're home', huh? She wasn't sure how Neal felt about the situation yet, but insensitive tendencies aside, it was obvious Peter was already integrating Neal into their family in his mind. She guessed that was what happened when someone you'd been half in love with for years started living in your home.

"Hey, hon," she said as he came into the kitchen, kissing him on the lips. Neal hung back near the door, shuffling his feet and looking vaguely uncomfortable. And also incredibly handsome. Wowza. That was some suit he had there! Peter had said he was taking him to a thrift store, but he looked like he'd just gotten back from a designer shopping spree and a day at the spa. "Neal, sweetie, how was your first day?"

Neal shot Peter a look before answering with a somewhat timid, "It was good, Ms. Elizabeth. A little… stressful, but good."

"I like the hat, very snazzy." She moved toward him, straightening his lapels in a motherly fashion, not that they really needed straightening. She pursed her lips slightly as she caught a glimpse of black beneath his shirt collar.

"Thank you, Ms. El," he said, posture relaxing and a big smile coming over his face. "The suit is a Devore."

El's mouth dropped open. "A Devore? You're kidding me! Where did you find it?"

"Am I the only one in the world who has no idea who this Sighing Duvet guy is?" Peter said, a little sourly.

"Oh, no, of course not, hon," El said teasingly, "there are plenty of other unfashionable people in the world who share your pain."

Neal laughed at that, his bright blue eyes lighting up. "It was amazing, Ms. El. I met this lady in the thrift store, and she had the most fantastic designer suits she was donating! She says she has a whole closet of them at home, and she invited me for tea tomorrow so I could try some on."

"Why do I have a feeling that I'm going to have to sacrifice my side of the closet and start keeping my suits in the laundry room?" Peter asked as he pulled a beer out of the fridge, looking amused.

El watched Neal carefully, making note how the slave paused and glanced over at Peter before speaking, obviously not sure whether or not the man was making an innocent joke or if there was some cutting remark hidden beneath. She made a note to explain to him that her straight-forward, hard-hitting Peter was not the type to bother with hidden layers or surreptitious mocking.

"I don't know if any of them would fit your shoulders, Master," Neal said, continuing to smile brightly while simultaneously lowering his voice to a sort of soothing tone. "But maybe they could be tailored…"

"Oh, he doesn't want your suits, sweetie," El said, brushing the words away. "He likes his wardrobe Old Faithful style. He was just teasing you."

Peter chuckled. "Yeah, they look better on you, anyway. You've got that young Frank Sinatra thing going on. You want a beer?"

Neal froze at the words, literally froze, mouth slightly open and hand brushing his hair behind one ear. "Uh, no, Master," he said after a moment, looking pained. "I'm not allowed to have alcohol, sir. It's against the law, Master, and I don't want to break the law, sir. Breaking the law is the last thing I want to do, Master."

El winced a little. Neal had obviously thought the offer was some sort of test, when truthfully it was just Peter not really giving any more of a damn about drinking laws than he had when he was nineteen years old chugging a home brew with his frat brothers.

"Oh, right," Peter said. "Yeah, I forgot. I mean, it's not a big deal, though, Neal. Obviously I don't want you going off and getting wasted, but if you want to have a cold one in the house, I don't care."

The words just made Neal look more distressed. Screw this, it was time to start getting things out in the open.

"It's not a test, sweetie, I promise," she said as she began to set the table. "He's not trying to get you in trouble. He means it, okay? Don't you, Peter?"

Peter looked at her strangely. "Of course, I do." He looked back at Neal. "What, you thought I was testing you?" He sounded mildly offended, as if that wasn't a completely reasonable conclusion to come to when you were a criminal on your first full day living in the house of the man who had put you away for your crimes.

Neal cleared his throat, looking mildly embarrassed, but El didn't miss how his smile became a little more real and his body relaxed. "Thanks, Master, but I'm not really a beer guy."

"Oh great," Peter said dramatically. "We have another wine snob in the house!"

El gave him a playful shove. "It's not *our* fault that you have pedestrian tastes, Mr. Burke!"

Peter tipped his beer back then gave a loud sigh of happiness, smacking his lips. "This man doesn't need fancy things to have good taste, Mrs. Burke."

She giggled as he reached over and tried to tickle her, batting him away. "Stop that or I'll feed your dinner to the dog, mister!"

Peter immediately stepped back, holding his hands up as he glanced over at Neal. "I tell you, she knows how to hit a man where it counts."

Neal laughed at that, and it sounded real enough. He still looked tense, but El had hope. This was their first real night together, after all.

"Dinner is served!" El said, pulling out her chair. Peter followed eagerly, and Neal only hesitated for a few seconds before seating himself very, very carefully on the edge of the chair at the end of the table in between El and Peter. He sat with his back ramrod straight, hands carefully folded in his lap, eyes drifting between the plate in front of him and Peter's face.

"Dish out what you want, Neal," El said, acting as the example and dumping a mound of spaghetti on her plate. "As much as you want. You don't have to eat it all if you fill up."

Neal nodded silently, though when the bowl came around he took out what looked like about five strands.

Peter, of course, loaded his plate to just about overflowing. "Mmm dis esh delishis," he said through a mouthful of food. El hid her smile at the mildly horrified look on Neal's face.

"He's not exactly Miss Manners," she said conspiratorially as she leaned toward Neal, making him chuckle as he very carefully wound a strand of spaghetti onto his fork.

"I see that, m'am."

"Oh, hush," Peter said, taking another swig of beer. "You two are just prissy feet."

"We're prissy feet, Master?" Neal said in an amused voice.

Peter nodded. "Yup. Total and absolute prissy feet."

"I have no idea what that means," El said to Neal, and they both laughed.

The rest of dinner went well, the lighthearted back and forth teasing seeming to put Neal at ease. He even took another helping of spaghetti, of a more reasonable size this time. Dessert was cheesecake, which Neal ate in a way that could only be called orgasmic, the look on his face one of complete and utter pleasure. Peter seemed to be just as fascinated with watching Neal eat the cheesecake as Neal was with eating it, which made El smile.

"Okay, boys," El said as Neal finished licking his fork in a way that might be described as decadently teasing if it wasn't so obvious that his attention was one hundred percent focused on the taste in his mouth. "Since we have a new member of our household, I thought maybe we'd do a little exercise to get to know each other better."

"What, like Truth or Dare?" Peter joked as El stood up and ducked into the living room, retrieving the papers she'd created, her notepad, and three pens.

"I was thinking something a little more sophisticated than that," El said with a smile as she settled back at the table, pushing the forms she'd created in their directions. "Going into any kind of relationship, people have certain expectations. Since Neal is new here and has lived a very different life than I have or you have, Peter, I think it would be good if you both wrote out, on paper, your expectations. Peter, I want you to write out the way you see Neal fitting into this house, and, Neal, I want you to write out how you see yourself fitting into this house. This is a judgement free exercise, and nothing you write will get you in trouble, Neal, or have my dear hubby sleeping on the couch, okay?"

El waited for Peter to protest the necessity of this, her rebuttal already planned out but, to her surprise, he picked up the pen and nodded.

"I think this is a good idea, El. I knew I married a smart lady." He smiled widely at her.

Neal didn't look nearly so agreeable, in fact, he looked a little ashen.

"Neal," she said quietly, "remember what I said about this being judgment free. No matter what you write, I promise that you will not get in trouble, even if you just want to write 'I hate Peter and Elizabeth' over and over again, okay?"

The slave managed a small chuckle, but the nervousness didn't fade much.

"She's right, buddy," Peter said in a matter-of-fact tone. "I promise that nothing you write will get you in trouble, and I think you know that I am a man of my word."

"Yes, sir," Neal said quietly, slowly picking up the pen, like maybe it might bite, then putting on a brave smile. "Okay, let's do it."

El smiled as she watched the two men bend over their papers. This would work out, she was sure. They just had to be willing to try.


	10. Peter Gets a Clue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter finds out what a prison slave does, El tries to comfort everyone, and Neal throws a temper tantrum.

Neal was pretty sure he was going to puke. Thankfully, he was equally sure that Peter couldn't tell. His conman superhero skills were hard at work keeping a perfectly jaunty smile on his face. He was careful to keep his body relaxed as he tipped back casually in his chair, blue eyes sparkling. 

It was handy, being able to sparkle on cue. A sparkle really wasn't *actually* a sparkle, after all—a real sparkle was called tears, something Neal was doing his best to avoid at the moment. A sparkle was just the tiny wrinkles that appeared when you gave a broad grin combined with a slight widening of the eyes. Hell, he wasn't even sure who'd first called it a 'sparkle.' Probably some ancient author with bipolar disorder and a fondness for over-description.

But sparkle or no sparkle, Neal was wearing his confident mask. And it was definitely a mask, because he was about as far from 'confident' as you could get. In fact, he was pretty sure he was going to die, all promises aside. Peter had just said he wouldn't euthanize him—he hadn't said that he wouldn't accidentally smash his head in with a pan. Okay, yeah, Elizabeth had said that they were playing the safe game, that nothing Neal wrote could get him in trouble, but he was pretty sure he was going to get in trouble anyway.

Neal had started the little questionnaire off with every intention to be a good little slave and list exactly what a good little slave would want, like putting 'maybe warm water' for bathing and 'a cage and maybe a blanket' for sleeping. But as he'd gotten further down the list, the Mozzie devil on his shoulder had begun to poke at him, and his answers had turned a little more… interesting. And there at the end…

Yeah, he was totally, absolutely, definitely dead.

"Okay, boys," Elizabeth said as she pushed Neal's page toward Peter and Peter's page toward Neal, smiling broadly at them both. "Now, why don't you skim these and we'll chat a little bit about the answers, okay?"

Neal clenched his jaw, the smile on his face starting to hurt. Was it too late to grab his sheet and rip it into pieces? If he snatched at it really fast, he might have a chance.

No, screw that. Neal had suffered four years of hell thanks to the jerk in front of him. Neal might only be a slave, but Peter had dropped him in hell, and that was fucking cruel. All Neal had done was steal a few bondage toys, con some rich guys, fake some bank accounts, forge some registrations, impersonate a freeman, disobey his mistress, violate his training, work with some illegal traders, break into a few mansions, redistribute stolen collars, sell himself under falsified documents, and evade his Seize and Destroy order. It wasn't like he had killed anybody. It was time for Mr. Special Agent Man to get what was coming to *him.*

Who cared if Peter decided to haul him straight back to prison tonight? Considering that Peter hadn't missed a single chance to remind Neal of the hell where he’d spent the past four years, it was probably where he was headed anyway. Who cared if he went back a little earlier than expected? Let the bastards pull out their toothbrushes. Neal didn't give a damn. Not at all. Not even a little bit. Nope.

Okay, that was bullshit. Time to get that paper back. Neal reached out to snatch the form off the table, wincing as Peter swiped it first, an amused look on his face.

"Hey, no take-backs at this stage of the game, boyo," Peter said with a smile. Neal smiled back, dropping his hands into his lap to hide the way they were shaking. El smiled at them both, a big, beautiful grin. It was a wonderfully smiley moment.

Somehow Neal didn't think it was going to last.

"Excuse me," Neal said, grin still pasted on his face as he pushed out his chair and stood, images of toothbrushes in naughty places flashing through his mind. "I'll be right back."

Everyone smiled as he backed out of the room. Smiles absolutely everywhere.

Neal managed to make it up the stairs and into the bathroom before he puked. Unfortunately, the vomit didn't quite make it into the toilet.

Oh yeah, it was all smiles today.

o o o

This had definitely been a good idea. Neal looked as relaxed as Peter had ever seen him. He was actually smiling, a real smile, as he used a foot to tip his chair back, a sparkle in his eye. Peter wasn't sure what, exactly, had happened to take him from inordinately stressed to calm and cool, but at least he wasn't wearing the look of terror that had been on and off his face all day.

The questionnaire El had cooked up was relatively simple, and Peter didn't think that there were too many things he and Neal wouldn't agree on. Most of it was basic stuff, like amenities and duties. Neal would probably be surprised that Peter was planning on giving him a small allowance—it was definitely not commonplace to let slaves have their own money—but that would be a pleasant discovery. 

Peter was starting to realize that most slave owners were a little stricter than he had imagined, but the underlying ideas were the same, right? Do good, get rewarded. Do bad, get punished. It wasn't exactly rocket science.

"Okay, boys," Elizabeth said as she switched their forms, shooting Peter a supportive look. "Now, why don't you skim these and we'll chat a little bit about the answers, okay?"

Peter reached for the paper, eyes widening slightly as Neal suddenly tumbled forward, chair falling hard back onto all four feet as he sort of grabbed for the sheet Peter had just picked up. Apparently someone wasn't happy with their answers. Having second thoughts, wishing he'd written in a clause about required dry cleaning? Or maybe some regrets about not listing a Jaguar as his transportation? Peter recalled Neal having a fondness for Jags. He'd stolen at least three.

Peter chuckled quietly at the idea. "Hey, no take-backs at this stage of the game, boyo," he joked, smiling at the slave.

Neal smiled back, his thousand watt grin, little laugh lines appearing around his eyes as he slid his chair out and stood slowly. "Excuse me," he said, cocking his head in an roguish way as he began to back out of the kitchen. "I'll be right back." The words were barely out before he turned on his heel and bolted up the stairs.

"Okay…" Peter said slowly as he was left staring at Neal's empty seat. He looked over at El. "Your lady senses have an explanation for that one?"

El shook her head, looking as miffed as Peter felt. "Not a clue." She frowned, rising from her seat. "You hold on just a second. I'm going to go check on him. That was *not* normal."

Peter started to stand. "I can—"

"No, hon," El cut off, her voice gentle. "You just wait here, okay? I think it would be better if I went alone."

Peter sank back in his seat, trying not to feel mildly hurt at the unspoken implication that his presence would just upset Neal more. If Neal was actually upset. Who knew what went through that boy's head? Seriously, Caffrey was the wackiest slave he'd ever met in his goddamn life. One minute he was all smiles and the next he was galloping off like a spooked horse.

Peter let out a little sigh, shaking his head as he took another sip of beer, dropping his eyes to scan Neal's form. If he was going to sit here while El hand-held Neal, he might as well make good use of his time.

o o o

"Neal?" El called worriedly as she knocked on the bathroom door. "Are you okay, sweetie?"

There was no answer and she knocked again, a little louder this time. "Neal?"

There was another moment of silence before Neal spoke, his voice hoarse. "Just a minute, Ms. Eliz—" His words were cut off by a gagging sound, quickly followed by hacking.

Okay, that was definitely not diarrhea. Screw it, she was going in. Hopefully his pants weren't down.

El pushed the door open, eyes falling to the floor where Neal was on his hands and knees, using toilet paper to try and clean up what was obviously vomit. She could see his throat still convulsing, however, and a moment later he had to duck over to the toilet, dry heaving into it.

"Oh my God, Neal!" she said, yanking open the linen cupboard and pulling out a towel. "Sweetie, stop trying to clean that up like that! If you're feeling sick, stay by the toilet!"

Neal obeyed, staying put, but began to shake his head. "Please, Ms. El, leave it. I'll clean it up in a second, m'am, I promise. Just give me a second." He sounded breathless.

El ignored him, bending over and using the towel to wipe up the vomit in a few swift motions.

"You're gonna ruin your towel…"

"Towels wash," she said flatly, tossing the thing into the bathtub to illustrate her point. "I'm more worried about you." She grabbed a washcloth off the sink and ran it under the tap for a moment before crouching down next to him. "What wrong, sweetie? Did you eat something bad?"

Neal turned away when she offered him the washcloth and El let out a sigh, reaching out and tugging at his chin until he was looking at her. "Wash your face, Neal."

"Yes, Mistress," Neal said, voice cracking a little on the word. "Mistress. That sounds… God. Why did she…? None of this would have happened if… " He shook his head, rubbing the washcloth violently across his face as a tear spilled down his cheek.

"Neal, what's wrong?" El asked quietly. "What's going on?"

The slave made a choked sound, rubbing at his face with the cloth again. He looked like a little boy sitting there, tears running down his cheeks and a helpless look on his face.

"I always fuck it up, Ms. El," Neal said in a hoarse voice. "Anybody else I can handle. But when it comes to Peter? I don't know why I do it!" He smacked the tile with his hand, jaw clenching up in frustration. "It's like I have to prove to him that I'm not some mindless automaton of a person—but that's exactly what I'm supposed to be! Hell, it's what I *want* to be, when Peter's around anyway. I don't know what it is about him… " His voice cracked again. "When I was there… I swore that when I got out, I'd be good, so good. The perfect slave. I'd never ever, ever, ever give anybody an excuse to put me there again. *Especially* not the great and powerful Agent Burke."

The words were tinged with bitterness, but strangely there didn't seem to be any sarcasm to them, like her husband was a twisted, real world version of the wonderful wizard of Oz.

"Neal," she said carefully, not quite sure where she was treading, "you know Peter's not angry with you."

"And I *have* been trying," Neal continued as if she hadn't even spoken, his voice a little dull. "But everything I do is wrong, even when I'm trying to do right." Another tear ran down his cheek and he wiped at it with his shoulder. "This is, like, the third time I've fucking cried today, because every second there's another reminder of where I'm going if I fuck up. No, *when* I fuck up, because I will fuck up. The fear, it's like a knife twisting in my gut." His voice was thick with pain. "I-I just don't want to go back… Mistress… Please, Mistress, help me."

Apparently that was the breaking point, because Neal began to cry full out, tears pouring down his cheeks, and he reached out blindly, grabbing for El, though she had a feeling that it was another 'Mistress' he really wanted to be holding. She wrapped her arms around him anyway, pulling him close to her and running a hand through his hair. "It's okay, Neal. You're not going back. Remember what I said? There's nothing you can write that will get you in trouble."

"It's doesn't matter," Neal said through his tears, squeezing her more tightly. "So maybe Master doesn't send me back for what I wrote. But someday I'll cross the line—not that I even know where the line is—and I'll be back there. I deserved it, I know I deserved it, if for nothing else than for being a disobedient failure of a slave. I know! So why does he have to tell me over and over? Does he really believe I'm that hard? Does he really believe I'm such a criminal that four years of being used day after day after day did nothing to me at all? That I'm the same boy I was when I went in?" He pulled back, wiping at his eyes.

"Neal," El said, not sure what to say, "I'm sure he doesn't think that."

Neal shook his head, looking bitter. "I think he does. I miss my Mistress, I miss my best friend, but I would put myself down with a needle in the arm before I'd go back to my old life, because he would catch me. I know he would catch me, and he'd send me back. He *will* send me back. I can see it, Ms. El, like it's already happened. Clear as day." 

His voice caught, the words tinged with despair. "I'm on my knees begging, begging, begging as he stares down at me and smiles and tells me how I d-deserve it." Another tear ran down his face. "That those men aren't the ones who hurt me, that I'm the one who hurt myself. Because it's my fault I'm there at all. 'You knew better, Neal,' he says. 'You're the only one to blame.' And he's right, so I can't even hate him for it. The only one I can hate is myself. But still I wonder… Why did he do it to me? Why, Ms. El? Why?!"

El reached out, squeezing his hand, a sick feeling rising in her gut as she watched the tears run down his face. Something was wrong here. Very, very wrong. Peter hadn't done anything to Neal. She knew that for certain, one hundred percent. There were no lies between her and her husband. But something had happened, something that destroyed this boy, and she was starting to get the feeling that it had happened right under their noses. It was time for some answers.

"What did he do, Neal?" she asked urgently, tipping his head up so she could look him in the eye. "I don't understand. What did he do?"

Neal stared at her for a long moment then shook his head, his eyes pained. "Nothing, Ms. El," he whispered. "He didn't do anything, not anything at all. He never even touched me. He didn't have to, because I did it to myself."

o o o

Peter shook his head as he studied the form in his hand, idly taking another sip of beer. El had called the first section 'expectations,' but Peter was starting to wonder if Neal had any real expectations at all.

_Food: once a day, preferably morning_

_Sleeping Arrangements: cage, maybe a blanket?_

_Bathing: every 2-3 days, maybe warm water?_

Maybe warm water? Did that mean he hadn't showered with warm water the night before? Just the thought made Peter's balls want to shrink up and hide. Unbelievable.  
   __

_Chores: I'll clean the house, wash clothes, etc while you're sleeping, just give me a list_

_Transportation: ride with you, walk_

_Clothes: Butt naked has been a popular choice in the past. Makes for easy access._

What the…?! Peter choked a little a the words, his cheeks reddening as his mind produced a very inappropriate image. Not entirely unpleasant, but definitely inappropriate. Seriously, he needed to bleach his brain.

_Grooming: If you want me to wax my pubes, I need actual waxing wax. Candles are *not* a substitute. But feel free to burn my dick with them. According to a previous master, I make a great face when you do that._

A joke. Definitely a joke. Right? Peter's mind flashed back to the time he'd seen a neighbor shove his cigarette into his slave's shoulder. Maybe not a joke. Seriously, the type of people who would do that should be wiped off the face of the planet.

_Dating: I love this new synonym for prostitution. Pimp me to your heart's desire. Except possibly to the schmuck in the office who took my damn hat. Don't expect much cash, though. I may have deserved it, but you're the one who brought down my net worth when it comes to buttsex._

What the hell did that mean?! Peter ran a hand through his hair nervously. That one… definitely a joke. Had to be a joke. There was no way in hell that Neal thought Peter would… do *that.* Hell, it was illegal! Except it wasn't, was it? Prostitution was illegal for free men, but you could sell your slave whenever you wanted. But Neal had to be joking. There was no way he believed Peter would do that. Ever. It was just a joke. A very. Bad. Joke.

_Sexual Activity: Because being fucked until you can't walk never gets old. Whenever you want, obviously, but if your wife wants in on the action and you don't like it, skip the face punching and just tell me._

Peter's jaw clenched, a surge of anger coming over him at the mention of his wife. Okay, they had officially crossed over into just plain offensive. This was *not* funny.  


   _Friends: If you see a short guy with glasses hiding in your bushes using Russian spy gear to look into your kitchen, please don't shoot. He's the only friend I've got and he honestly believes that aliens kidnapped JFK._

_Money: Credit Suisse Account: 27685470XG, Name: Nicholas Adler, Password: ancient lyre, Nick's SSN: 004-29-8744, Secondary Passcode: saintgeorge, Total Amount: $1,125,400 Happy now? Please don't tell the short guy with the glasses about this._

Peter stared down at the page in disbelief. No way. There was no way. It was bogus information. It had to be. Neal would never… No way. Absolutely no way. He wasn't sure what game Neal was playing, but this was definitely bogus. Definitely. Right?

Peter swallowed hard, forcing himself to move on.  
  

_Personal Time: I'll hide in my cage like a good boy, don't worry. Just let me stay in my cage. I won't plan or scheme or whatever. I won't even think. I just want to sit in my cage. Privileges: Bathroom privileges are always nice unless you really want to know when I need to take a crap. FYI, you can only hold that stuff so long before it hurts like hell and eventually it will come out. Seriously, it will just come out. You can't stop it. It's your carpet. Protect it with bathroom privileges. Other privileges? Well, doing anything for you, obviously. Like sucking your cock. I'm reading that over and it sounds sarcastic, but I'm serious. I'm here for you. You know that, right? I am. Anything you want, it's a privilege to give you. Anything. Just tell me._

Peter's cheeks grew hot. What the hell? Okay, this was just getting weird.

The next section was 'behavior,' which seemed pretty cut and dry to Peter, but after reading 'expectations,' he was starting to feel a little nervous about what Neal might have to say.

_Definition of Good Behavior: Doing what you say. Always. Knowing what you want and doing it. Obeying all free men. Being silent and invisible. Total humility. Submission in attitude and posture. Physical self-degradation. Loving and worshipping my master. Never ever even thinking about doing anything, especially illegal things. Being thankful for being sent to—Thanking you for giving me what I— Being thankful for punishment. Remembering what I am._

_Consequences/Results of Good Behavior: Not being a prison slave._

_Definition of Bad Behavior: My entire personality._  

_Consequences/Results of Bad Behavior: rutrutrutrutrutrutpainbangbangbangbangbangbangbangstrapshumphumphumphumphumiliationsucksucksucksucksucksuck — Being a prison slave._

What the hell? Peter didn't even know what the hell to think about *that.*

_Acceptable Punishments: Is there such a thing as unacceptable punishment? I really don't think so. I don't think you can top your best, anyway, Master. And if you can, please, please, please don't. Just put me down. Please._

_Acceptable Rewards: Clearer rules, explanations of things I did wrong, fewer reminders of That Place, not making me admit I deserved it so much, less threats, using me as your slave, telling me what I did good so I can do it again._

_Other Notes: I'm going to be honest. I know I'm a bad slave. I get it. I'm going back soon, that's clear. Maybe after this case, maybe later. I know I'm going back, so there's really no need for you to remind me, Master. Please stop reminding me. It's starting to make me sick. Seriously, I think I'm going to puke if you tell me one more time that tomorrow I might be back in that filthy prison with a bouquet of penises being shoved inside me. Even fucklings aren't trained for that, and the stress is killing me. I was seven years old when they broke me in, and seven year olds aren't made for that, but I was okay. I barely even cried. Only a little, anyway. But I cried all the time at That Place._

_I've talked to free women who have been raped. Mistress was raped when she was sixteen. But I never understood. Not until I went to That Place. I know the things I did are what put me in that place, and I know that a slave can't be raped. But I understand now what it probably feels like to be raped. Never in all my years of being handed around had I ever felt so totally worthless. Nothing about me mattered. They don't talk to me, they don't look at me, they don't care if I'm crying or screaming or laying there in silence. And when it's over, it's all my fault. I put myself in the situation, just like how Mistress got wasted at a party and took off her top. Except that wasn't really her fault, but this was really mine._

_I hate you, Peter. I HATE YOU! I hope you fucking die. Diediediedie. Except I don't. I don't. You're right, you're right! See how you're right! Even I know you're right! I want to hate you so bad. I want to scream at you and hit you and make you feel like I feel. But you don't deserve that, Master. You don't deserve it, I deserved it. See, I'm saying it! I deserved it, I did. It isn't even fair to compare it to what Mistress went through, because it's not the same. I'm a slave. I don't even need to deserve it. None of the other boys at the prison did anything to deserve being there. But I know you put me there because you felt like I deserved it, not just to be cruel, because you wouldn't do that. I know. It hurts but I know. And I know that if I mess up, I'll go back. I know it, I really do. So please, please, please just stop reminding me. I can't forget it anyway. I think about it every second of every day. There's no need to remind me. Please, if I ever deserve a reward, let that be it._

_I should stop writing now, since I'm running out of space and all. But please, let a sleeping dog lie or I may puke on your shoes._

_—Neal_

_P.S. I really don't hate you. Not even a little. I'm sorry I wrote that._

Spots began to appear on the paper in Peter's hands as he stared down at it dully. It took a few moments to realize that they were tears, and they were coming from him.

It was like a horrific puzzle had just come together in his mind, leaving him feeling shell-shocked and numb. The warden, sneering as he bragged about how well his program meshed with Neal's product usage. Neal hovering outside the Registry, spilling tales about Matthew Keller's illegal trade. A fuckling. Neal was a fuckling. It was obvious. Hell, Neal had pretty much said so this morning, but in all the drama it hadn't quite clicked. Not a single one of Neal's aliases had ever been a fuckling. Peter had always assumed it was because the charming conman didn't want to be associated with that sort of label. But no. He had been trying to escape it.

Raped. Neal had been raped, over and over and over again. Peter didn't know how, or why, but he was smart enough to discern that much. Neal was broken. They'd managed to break the smartest, most talented man that Peter had ever met. And for what? A few stolen paintings?

Images began to flash through Peter's mind. Neal's voice, shaky and hoarse, as he whispered that he deserved it, the pain in his eyes so deep and real. Over and over Peter had ground it in, reminding Neal at every turn that one toe out of line and he was back in the prison. Back in the prison being raped and tortured.

Peter jerked at the sound of voices from the living room, looking up as El and Neal walked back into the room. Neal's eyes were red, but his big smile was back in place. His lying smile, because it was definitely a lie. Neal had nothing to smile about.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Peter asked, voice hoarse. He picked up his napkin, using it to dab at his eyes. "God, Neal! Why didn't you tell me?"

El looked back and forth between the two of them, a confused look on her face. "Tell you what, Peter? Neal? What is going on here?"

Peter pointed a finger accusingly at Neal, anything to keep from having to point it at himself. "They raped him. In the prison! They—" He cut off, swallowing hard. "Why didn't you tell me, Neal?"

"Master, I—"

"Cut the bullshit, Neal!" Peter said, trying to ignore the sick twisting in his stomach. "Why didn't you *tell* me?"

The words came out a little louder than Peter had intended and the smile disappeared from Neal's face like someone had wiped it away, replaced by a look of anger.

"Tell you? What do you want to *know,* Peter?" he demanded, eyes flashing. "Do you want me to describe it? Do you want to know how it felt? How much it hurt? A lot. It hurt a lot, okay? Every day was an endless procession of pain and fear and sadness. You wanted to know why I ran with only a few months left? Well, that's why! Because Mistress was the one light in a world of dark and hurt and terror. And when she left, it was like *dying.*" Neal collapsed into the chair across the table, his whole body sort of deflating. "Please, Peter," he said in a soft voice as rubbed tiredly at his face, "please just let me forget it. Just for awhile. Just long enough to feel alive again."

Peter stared at Neal, a lump growing in his throat as he watched the slave drop his head down, burying his face in his arms, his shoulders shaking.

"Neal," he said, his voice cracking a little as he reached out, hand hovering above the slave's arm. "I didn't know, Neal. I didn't…" He looked over at El, blinking back tears. "Tell him I didn't know!"

El licked her lips, her face pale and almost sickly looking, but she reached out, touching Neal's back gently. "Neal," she said in an amazingly steady voice. "It's true. Peter and I talked about you a lot, and he had no idea you were being hurt."

A bitter laugh rose up from Neal. "What, because a fuckling wouldn't give a shit?" he questioned, lifting his head to meet Peter's eyes. "Well, guess what, fucklings actually have feelings. Surprise!"

"Dammit, Neal, if they hurt you like that, why didn't you report them?"

"He's a slave, Peter!" El said, looking frustrated. "Who would he report them to? I'm sure the warden was involved. Who could he have gone to? Legally, the warden could do what he wanted."

"No," Peter snapped. "No. Someone would have stopped it. No one could just stand back and let a government slave be abused like that!"

El gave a short laugh. "I'm sorry to burst your bubble, hon, but I think both of us are a little on the naive side when it comes to these sort of things. I went to SlaveMart today—"

"You went to SlaveMart?" Peter cut in. "Why the hell did you go to SlaveMart?"

"I wanted to get Neal a cage, but that's not the point."

Oh great, the damn cage again! Peter gritted his teeth. "Then what *is* the point?"

"The point is that those slaves are treated like inanimate objects! They stock them aisles like soup cans or soda pop! The horrors you've told me about slavery? The abuse you've seen? This goddamn store was just as bad, and they're the number one slave retailer in the country! I know you think it's limited to the bastards you bring down, but the inhumanity is more widespread than we realize. Or, to be more honest, than we want to *admit*, because I think we both know how our friends and co-workers treat slaves, we just prefer to ignore it."

Peter's face heated up. "I do not ignore it! And I'm not ignoring this!" He gestured toward Neal. "Whoever was behind this is going down!"

El huffed. "Oh, please! You're never going to weed out who it was yourself, and Neal's testimony isn't good in court. How do you expect to prosecute them? And on what terms? He *is* a slave, whether you want to believe it or not!"

"There has to be a—"

"For the love of God, would you two shut the hell up?" Peter jumped slightly as Neal slammed a fist onto the table hard enough to make the flowers at the center rattle. "What are you even *talking* about?" Neal snapped, a look of total bewilderment in his eyes. "Prosecuting them? For what? There was no crime!"

Peter grabbed the paper Neal had written out, waving it in his face like it was hard evidence. "They raped you! You said it, right here! Well, maybe not in so many words, but it's obvious! You need to tell me who it was so that I can deal with it."

Neal stared at him, mouth hanging open slightly. He sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and shaking his head in disbelief. 

"Peter, Master, no one raped me. That wasn't what I meant when I wrote…" He glanced down at the paper in Peter's hand, shaking his head. "God, I should never have written any of that. I was a prison slave. You know that. Everybody knows that! Nobody did anything wrong. That's what prison slaves are *there* for! Why are you suddenly so upset?" 

Neal paused, frowning slightly. "Is it what I said about it feeling like rape? Because that was stupid to say. I don't know what it's like to be raped—I'm a slave! It was disrespectful to compare myself to Mistress. I'm sorry. I knew the second I handed that thing over that this was going to turn into a mess. I really am so, so sorry." His voice caught. "Please don't send me back. I didn't mean to upset you. Okay, I did mean to upset you, but it was stupid. Really, really stupid. Just… Don't make me go back there." Neal blinked rapidly then turned his head away, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Neal, you are *never* going back there," Peter said harshly. "Never! Do you really think I'd give you back to the people who hurt you?"

"Neal," El said, her voice low. "What, exactly, does a prison slave do? For real this time."

"Right. She doesn't know what a prison slave is," Neal muttered. He let out a short laugh. "A prison slave is exactly what my product usage states. Sexual entertainment. For the inmates. You get shifts. Sometimes in the rec room, sometimes in the yard, sometimes in the showers, sometimes in what we call the fuck room. The Personal Entertainment Room. You lay down or lean against the wall or whatever you're supposed to do and wait with the other prison slaves on your shift. Then the inmates come in and fuck whoever they like. You get fucked ten, maybe twenty times a shift usually—there are only about twenty prison slaves for two hundred inmates—but you only have shifts three times a week. 

“Except after I escaped, the warden upped my shirts to all day, every day. Didn't even let me go back to my cage at night. Just strapped me down on the bed in the fuck room as tight as he could." Neal's voice sounded bitter. "Being pretty has always been an asset, but not in there. Definitely not in there." He looked up, eyes still shining with tears. "I don't want to go back. Hughes said I should go back, said that I would fuck up your life, but I don't want to go back, Peter." Neal let out a sob, shoulders shaking. "Please, don't send me back."

o o o

The way Peter was staring at him was definitely starting to freak Neal out. He felt like a fucking mess, tears on his cheeks, his shoulders shaking as he pretty much begged his master for his life. Because being at that prison was not living a life. It was a vacation in hell.

Peter looked as composed as ever, his jaw tight and his eyes practically drilling holes in Neal's skull. He hoped the man wasn't mad that he'd told El what a prison slave was, but it would have been pretty hard to lie at this point. Honestly, he didn't know what had been going through their minds as they argued about prosecuting someone for, well, nothing. You couldn't prosecute a prison for using their prison slave.

Every word had stirred up more tension until Neal just exploded. He still couldn't believe he'd yelled at them to shut up, or that Peter hadn't slapped the shit out of him for doing so. The fear of being sent back after writing that ridiculous list had pushed him to his limit. The wear and tear of the day had first exploded from his stomach, then from his tongue. He just couldn't take it anymore, the constant threat of going back hanging over his head. It was driving him insane.

"That… is what a prison slave does." It was more a statement than a question, and Neal glanced up at Peter, nodding. "A prison slave… is a whore."

Blood rushed to Neal's cheeks and he dropped his head in shame. "Yes, Master," he said in a soft voice. "I'm a whore."

"You're not a whore, sweetie," El said in a harsh voice, fingers suddenly digging into Neal's shoulders. "Don't say that."

"Why not?" Neal asked, lifting his head to look at her. "It's what I am, Ms. El. Ask Peter. He knows where I came from."

"A prison slave is… is… Oh my God."

Neal's eyes widened as Peter stood abruptly, kicking his chair out of the way as he moved to the fridge, yanking it open and pulling out a beer. He popped the top and began to chug, downing half the can in one go.

"Peter!" El hissed, looking annoyed.

Peter turned around, and Neal's breath caught as he saw tears shining in the man's eyes. He paused then turned back around and yanked open a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of Jack Daniels and a trio of shot glasses.

"Ever had whiskey?" he asked shortly as he dropped back down into the chair across from Neal, blinking rapidly.

"No, Master," Neal whispered, sinking down a little in his seat, unsure what, exactly, to make of Peter's actions. Never in his life had he met a master as confusing as this one.

Pete began to pour the amber liquid into the glassed. "Well, there's a first time for every-every—Oh my God!" Without warning he dropped the bottle onto the table and covered his face with his hands, tears running down his cheeks. "I did this. I did this!"

What the hell?

El released her grip on Neal, moving over toward her husband. "You didn't know, sweetie," she said, and Neal realized suddenly that she was crying as well. "You didn't do this. Some disgusting bastards out there did this."

"I put him in there, El!" Peter said emphatically, rubbing viciously at his cheeks. "It was me! No one else!"

A fact that Peter had been rather proud of an hour ago. Seriously, what was going on here?

"Master—"

"Please, Neal," Peter said in a choked voice. "Please don't call me master right now. Agent Burke, or Peter, but not master. I can't hear that right now."

Neal swallowed nervously. "Y-yes, Mas—er, I mean, sir. Peter. Sir. Whatever you want."

Peter gave a hoarse laugh. "You hear that, El? Whatever I want. His money, his body, his *life.* Whatever I want."

"Yes," Neal jumped in, more than willing to agree to that. "Whatever you want, I swear." Apparently this was *not* the response Peter was looking for because he shot Neal a pained look.

"Oh God, Neal," Peter said, sniffling. "I… I… Shit, I don't even know what to say. El, tell me what to say!"

What the fuck?

El took a deep breath, almost as if she was readying herself for battle. "Neal, what Peter is trying, very inelegantly to say, is that he didn't know what a prison slave does. Neal, neither of us had ever heard of a prison slave before this week."

Neal blinked. What? They had never heard of a prison slave? How was that even possible? Okay, Neal had never heard of a prison slave before he became one, but Peter was in the goddamn Vice Collar division of the FBI. There was no way he didn't know what a prison slave was. Neal wasn't sure what game the man was trying to play, but something was up here.

"He doesn't believe me," Peter said in a voice barely above a whisper. "He thinks I knew. He thinks I wanted it. He thinks I sent him there. Oh my God, he thinks I'm a monster."

"What? No I don't. Is this about what I wrote? I told you, I don't hate you, Master. Peter. Whatever. I told you! I know I deserved it—"

"No one deserves that." It sounded like a growl. "No one, not a single person on this earth! Especially not—especially not—Oh, God." Peter grabbed one of the tiny glasses off the table and tipped it back, making a quick face before turning his attention back on Neal. "I swear, on my wife's *life*, that I didn't know, Neal. Please." Peter reached for his hand and Neal automatically jerked back, regretting it as a look akin to despair rolled over Peter's face.

El settled back in her own chair and reached out, picking up Peter's abandoned form and holding it out to Neal. "He didn't know, Neal. Look. Look and you'll see that he didn't know."

Neal took the page hesitantly, then began to quickly skim it.

_Expectations_

_Food: whenever you're hungry, take what you like Sleeping Arrangements: guest room Bathing: whenever you like, shower or bath, whichever you prefer_

_Chores: El and I have a rotating schedule. She'll add you to it. She's good at schedules. I'm good at forgetting the dry cleaning._

_Transportation: we'll get you a bus pass_

_Clothes: I think you have that covered, Dino!_

_Grooming: I groom my dog, not other guys. I'm sure you know how to use a safety razor._

_Dating: Your business, as long as she's not a FELON!_

_Sexual Activity: Haha, El, very funny. I am so not answering this._

_Friends: Again with the NO FELONS rule._

_Money: We'll set you up with wages or an allowance or something._

_Personal Time: Do whatever you like as long as it doesn't involve any crimes. We'll buy you some paintbrushes or whatever you artsy fartsy types do._

_Privileges: Stay out of trouble, keep your nose clean, and we'll talk about more freedom, a bigger radius, those kind of things._

_Behavior_

_Definition of Good Behavior: Staying on the right side of the law, working hard, honesty, respect, dedication, trying not to start fights over hats in the middle of the office._

_Consequences/Results of Good Behavior: More freedom to do what you want, more money, etc_

_Definition of Bad Behavior: BREAKING THE LAW, lying, cheating, you know, the stuff your mother told you not to do._

  _Consequences/Results of Bad Behavior: Reduced freedom, less free time, might take away your ties. I bet that would be painful. Let's just avoid this all together, whaddya say?_

_Acceptable Punishments: Reduced freedom, increased chores, reduced allowance, reduced radius, etc_

_Acceptable Rewards: Increased wages/allowance, more freedom, bigger radius, more responsibility at work, and I'm sure we can come up with a few other incentives to keep you on the Light Side of the Force._

_Other Notes: Neal, we really are glad to have you in our house. I know you're not exactly used to the way we live yet, but I think it will work out, especially if we both really try. So welcome to the family. Wow, that sounded sappy._

Neal stared down at the paper, shaking his head ever so slightly. "I don't… I… How could you not know? How… You work in Vice Collar."

"We handle criminals actually out in the world, not the ones who have been caught," Peter said quietly. "It's not like slaves go to trial. They're just immediately sentenced and their contracts transferred. It's the masters we have to spend our time prosecuting. I don't really know any more than the average person about criminal contracts. I do the catching, not the convicting. I guess… I guess I thought it was like a janitor job or something."

A janitor job. A *janitor* job. Neal laughed out loud. "No. No, no, no. You're messing with me. Oh, God." He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. "You're messing with me. Please, please stop. I don't want to go back." He ran a hand roughly through his hair, rushing pulse making him feel lightheaded.

"You're not going back, Neal," Peter fervently. "We're going to solve this fucking case, and you're never going back. I swear."

Neal stared at Peter, trying to process the words. It was a lie. It had to be a lie. Every assumption he'd made about Peter since the day he'd been caught had revolved around the knowledge that Peter had dumped him in the prison to suffer. It was at the core of everything he thought he knew about the man. It was the fact that had rewritten his image of the man who'd chased him from a powerfully driven agent with a quick mind and a strong sense of justice to a frighteningly righteous figure who wasn't afraid to hit where it hurt just to prove he could.

"Neal, please believe me," Peter said, reaching out to grasp his hand, big finger tightening around Neal's wrist like a noose. "I swear to God, I didn't know."

"No," Neal said, shaking his head rapidly. "No, you knew. You knew. I know you knew. You had to know. You knew! Can we stop playing this game already?"

"I'm not playing any game, Neal," Peter said roughly, hand clenching tighten on his wrist. "I didn't know!"  
Neal shook his head in disbelief. "The last time I saw you, when I was being taken to the transport vehicle, you said to me, you said 'You're going to jail for a long time for this, Caffrey.' And I did. I did! Don't say you didn't know. Don't say that! I'm so tired of pretending that I'm okay, that everything's okay. Don't say you didn't know!"

"I didn't mean you'd be a prison slave!" Peter protested. "Hell, I'd practically forgotten you were a slave by then! I just meant that you were going to serve time! Where you went was the DOJ's decision, not mine! I didn't have anything to do with it!" Peter said, squeezing Neal's hand even tighter. "I swear, I didn't—"

"Stop lying!" Neal shouted, yanking his hand away from Peter's grip. "I'm tired of the lying, I'm tired of the games! I don't know why you're messing with my head, but I'm tired of it! I've tried to be good but you've tested me at every fucking turn! But I get it now. I get it! It's a trap. I lie, I get rewarded. I admit a crime, you tell me I'm safe and sound. You give me a fucking drink," Neal grabbed the shot of whiskey, holding it up, "and I bet you'd smile and laugh if I drank it. But it's all a trap, just build up to something bigger. 

“You're testing me with little things, then letting them go, because you think that when the big test comes along, I'll be cocky and stupid and think I can get away with it because you've been oh *so* nice. So to hell with it!" With those words Neal stood and threw the little glass onto the floor, a strange sense of satisfaction rushing through him as it shattered, making Peter curse.

"Neal, what the—"

"I hope you've had your fun, Peter," Neal interrupted, his whole body practically vibrating with adrenaline as he began to back toward the backdoor. "Because if I'm already fucked, I might as well skip the foreplay and cash in my ticket to hell now."

"Neal," Peter said sternly, standing up abruptly. "You need to calm down."

Neal let out a laugh as he fumbled with the handle, his heart pounding madly. Was he out of his *mind*? What the fuck was *wrong* with him? This was the stupidest, rashest, most idiotic thing he'd ever done in his life. But God, it felt good. "Your move, master."

With those words Neal turned and dashed off into the night.


	11. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Neal and Mozzie hide at June's, Diana helps Peter find his slave, and Peter utterly fails at beating Neal.

"Can you do anything about it?" Neal questioned. The words had an edge of desperation to them, which made sense considering that he was feeling pretty damn desperate.

Mozzie shook his head, a serious look on his face. "No way, man. Uh-uh. It's unhackable. I can try and cut through it, you know, if having a electric saw next to your jugular doesn't bother you, but it would probably trigger the shock feature and we'd both be passed out on the floor."

Neal let out a frustrated sigh, slamming his hand down on the table in frustration. "Dammit! What am I going to do, Moz?"

"Escape to the moon? God, I don't know, Neal. This wasn't the brightest move you've ever made. Tell me again why the *hell* you decided to run?"

Neal looked up, blinking away the tears that were once again building up in his eyes. He'd cried enough for a lifetime in the last forty-eight hours, thank you very much. He needed to get his crap under control and think with a clear head. 

"I was just so sick of it, Moz," he said, voice cracking a little. "The lies… All the lies… The pressure just kept building up and I couldn't take it anymore."

"Here you go, boys," a soft voice called out. Neal gave Madam June the best smile he could scrounge up as she walked into the sitting room and settled a cup of cocoa in front of him. 

"Thank you, Madam," he said quietly. "I appreciate it. I really do. But we should be leaving, m'am. My master will come after me soon, and I don't want you to get in trouble."

The woman waved the words away with a tight smile. "Oh, I've known plenty of trouble in my day. And I've seen my fair share of federal agents, as well. Your master won't find you in this house."

"He doesn't need a warrant, Madam," Neal said tiredly. "This thing tracks down to the meter." He ran a hand along the smooth metal surface of his collar. "He'll know I'm in your house."

"Oh, he may know," June said, a wicked sort of smile growing on her face, "but he still won't find you." She moved across the room, pausing in front of the liquor cabinet. "Every cheesy gangster movie you see has a room hidden away behind a bookcase." She reached deep into the cabinet, pushing several bottles aside. "But my Byron and I had something better. We had a whole *host* of rooms hidden behind our *liquor* cabinet." There was a soft clicking noise and the entire cabinet swung forward a few inches.

"Well, come on," she said as Neal just sat there, staring in disbelief. "In we go!"

o o o

Peter punched another button on his smartphone, cursing when the app blinked and shut down for what had to be the tenth time. Why the hell had he left finishing the setup on this thing to Diana? Dammit, where was a probie when you needed them?

"Hey, boss. You called?"

Ah, there she was.

"Hey, Diana," Peter said as she climbed out of the car. "Look, I'm sorry to call you so late at night, but I need your help."

"No problem, boss," she said, a worried look on her face. "Christy had the night shift at the hospital anyway. What's going on?"

Peter took a deep breath, letting it out in a whoosh. "Look, Diana, I need to tell you something, but before I do, I have to warn you that it's going to put you in a difficult situation. If Hughes finds out you know, he will not be happy. So if you want to walk away—"

"Let me guess. Caffrey's gone."

Peter blinked and Diana gave a dark little chuckle.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. No worries, your secret's safe with me, boss. What happened?"

Peter swallowed hard. "Honestly? I don't really know. It's a giant mess. God, do you know what a prison slave does?"

Diana bit her lip, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "I made some assumptions, just based on how I've seen slaves treated in the past and the way Caffrey slinks around like there's a monster hidden behind every corner."

Peter threw his hands up in the air. "Shit, am I the only person in the universe who *didn't* know that Neal's spent the past four years being whored out on the state's watch? Sick fucking bastards and their sick fucking system. The DOJ should be ashamed."

"There are a lot of things about slavery that people should be ashamed about," Diana said quietly. "But it's easier for people just to pretend they didn't know. So you found out about Neal's… assignment. How does that translate to us standing in the middle of the city at midnight trying to track him down?”

Peter shook his head. "That's just it—I don't know! Neal freaked out when I told him that I didn't know! It was *insane.* He was actually *angry* when I said I didn't know! It was like he *wanted* me to have known! Then he called be a liar, said that I had to know, that I must be trying to trick him. God, what kind of monster does he think I am?" Peter's voice cracked on the last words.

"He doesn't think you're a monster, Peter," Diana said, reaching out and taking the phone from his shaking hand. "He think you're his master. He probably spent a lot of time thinking about you when he was holed up in prison, and just when he thought he'd figured you out, you went and shattered his expectations. If you're telling the truth, if you really didn't know, then all his assumptions are destroyed and he has to start all over again, which is probably almost as terrifying to him as the thought of going back to the prison."

Peter's brow furrowed. "What does that mean? His assumptions? What assumptions?"

Diana gave a soft sigh, looking up at Peter. "The assumptions he had to make because you keep refusing to give him any straightforward rules. I told you, Peter, Neal is a slave, not your friend. He's your possession. A slave's job is to know what their master wants before their master even knows he wants it. A slave's whole world revolves around their master. But you won't come out and tell him what you want, so he's had to try and figure it out for himself, not knowing if, at any minute, he might step out of line and be horribly punished. 

“Knowing that you made him a prison slave, and why, gave him at least one boundary to work with. If he committed any crimes, he would go back to the prison. It was an extreme line, but at least it was a line. Take *that* away and he has nothing to work from at all. For all he knows, you might beat the crap out of him for breathing too loud. So when you told him that you didn't know, he was afraid to believe it. It's understandable."

"Understandable?" Peter said, shaking his head. "How is it 'understandable' to be afraid of the idea that I'm *not* going to send him back to be raped by hundreds of men if he steps on my toes? That's not understandable, it's *crazy!*"

Diana gave him a tired smile. "Einstein said that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. So, in Caffrey's mind, *you're* the one who's insane, because he has no idea how you'll react. In his mind, you're the one who's all over the place because one second you're the agent who put him away and the next you're his best buddy.

"You don't want to be his master, but that's what Neal needs right now. He doesn't need a partner, or a mentor, or even a friend. He needs a *master.* I *know* that isn't the kind of relationship that *you* want to have, but before you can be anything else to him, you're going to *have* to be his master, Peter. Otherwise he's going to spend every second of every day on terrified out of his mind." The phone in her hand beeped and she smiled. "Okay, I have the tracker working. He's less than a half a mile away."

"Thank God," Peter muttered, not even wanting to imagine what would happen if Neal hit his two mile radius and that horrible collar shocked him. He pulled open the door to the Taurus, climbing in and shutting it behind him.

"I still don't get it, though," he said as Diana climbed in the passenger seat, his fingers digging into the steering wheel in frustration. "You say he's terrified—why is he terrified? I haven't given him a single reason to be terrified! And yeah, okay, I can understand now why he's been so afraid when I talk about him going back to prison. But how could he think I'm playing some sort of game with him? That's fucking ridiculous! He knows that's not the kind of man I am!"

Diana sighed again, and this time there was a hint of annoyance to it. Apparently she was getting tired of explaining this shit to him, but boo hoo. Peter was sick of feeling like a fourteen year old boy trying to figure out why girls do what they do every time Caffrey walked in the room.

"You don't get it, boss," Diana said, clicking her seatbelt into place. "He *doesn't* know that. He doesn't know *anything*, because you won't tell him. Like I said, Neal is a slave. I'm not screwing with you, okay? Slaves really are happy when they have rules, instructions. If they know exactly what their masters want them to do, then they have nothing to fear. If they *do* get punished, it was because they did something wrong and they know it, *not* because they did something wrong that they didn't even know was wrong. 

“Some slave masters have some pretty arbitrary rules. I once saw the skin flogged off a kid's back because he looked his master in the eye. Then I saw another slave get whipped for *not* looking his master in the eye. I've seen slaves be punished for organizing their master's desk, for setting the table with the water glasses on the left side instead of the right, for bowing at the head instead of at the waist, for putting pizza boxes in the recyclables, and for sneezing in front of their master. Do you think *any* of them knew they were committing a punishable offense when they did those things? But in a slave's mind, their master still has a right to punish them when they displease him, even if he never even hinted that what they did was against the rules."  
"Not exactly fair," Peter said tightly as he pulled into traffic, and Diana gave him a look.

"No, it's not. But it's the way of the world, so I'm going to be honest with you, okay, Peter? Man to man, well, woman to man, anyway. And I want you to listen to me? Okay?"

Peter swallowed hard, giving Diana a sharp nod. "Okay."

Diana took a deep breath. "Peter… To Neal, *you* are that unfair master."

"What?" Peter said in disbelief. "*I'm* that unfair master? How, exactly, am *I* that unfair master? I wouldn't punish Neal for any of those things."

"Maybe not," Diana said shortly, "but you haven't told *him* that. So, in his mind, every move he makes is dangerous. It's a slave's job to be obedient. When a master has a lot of rules, then it's easy to be obedient and life isn't so stressful. But when a master has *no* rules, then the slave never knows what might set him off and life can be a hell. I know you see being easy going as a kindness, Peter, but Neal sees it as a cruelty. Telling him exactly what you do and do not want would be the kindness."

Peter made a sound of annoyance. "But I don't want to treat Neal like that! I want him to know that I respect him!"

"I know that, Peter," Diana said, reaching out and giving his arm a comforting squeeze. "That's what makes you a great man and what, in the end, will make you a great master for someone as smart as Caffrey. But right now, he sees your 'respect' as the end all of degradations. He figures that you don't care enough about his well-being to bother telling him how to act, because you don't care whether or not he gets hurt. *That's* why he can't believe that you didn't know about the prison slave thing. If you're really as innocent as you say you are, then why haven't you given him any instructions? He thinks you're setting him up to fail, like so many masters do simply because they get a power trip from punishing their slaves. Not that Neal likely thinks about it in so many words. But I would guess that's where his mind is."

"I would never set Neal up to fail," Peter said, gripping the steering wheel even tighter as he wove his way through traffic, trying his best to aim toward the blinking red dot on his phone's screen. "And all I want is for him to keep his nose clean and stay out of trouble! I've *told* him that. Isn't that enough?"

"I hate to sound like a broken record, boss, but he's a slave. Free men are the ones with a moral compass, the ones who have 'right and wrong'—and even free men don't always agree on that issue. To a slave, 'right' is whatever their master wants, even if it's illegal or if general society would think it's immoral. You're assuming that he understands the concept of 'right and wrong' on anything more than an intellectual level. Deep down, 'right' is whatever you want, and 'wrong' is whatever you don't want. Slaves will break the law on their master's orders without a second thought. You know that. But the way *you* would feel breaking into a store and stealing a TV, that's how *they* would feel if their master ordered them to break into a store and steal a TV and they refused."

Seriously? Peter gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to slam his head into the steering wheel. "I don't… It's just… God, it's so hard to wrap my mind around the idea…"

"Hey," Diana said, giving Peter a supportive smile, "I understand. You have to remember, I grew up surrounded by more slaves than your entire neighborhood owns, combined. We had slaves coming out the wahzoo, and some of them were my good friends. It's easier to understand someone when you grow up with them. Most middle class free men don't understand slaves. But, unlike you, they don't want to. They just want them to wash their dishes, suck their dicks, and get out of the way. 

“You have plenty of time to understand Neal. What you do need to realize, right now, is that by refusing to take responsibility of Neal and be his master, you're actually hurting him. Rome wasn't built in a day, and you're not going to be able to instantly turn Neal into the man you want him to be, no matter how bad you want to. It may mean doing some things that make you uncomfortable, even things that you don't believe are right, but if you really want to help him then that's a sacrifice you're going to make. Caffrey is a fucking genius, and I have no doubt that he'll come around once he really trusts you, but to earn that trust, you're going to have to be his master, at least for a little while."

Peter took a deep breath, pondering her words. He didn't like it, but it was starting to sink in. Diana's theory sure did explain a lot about Neal's behavior over the last couple of days, anyway. It made him feel a little ill to imagine himself playing 'master'—because that's what it felt like, a role he'd be playing—but it was obvious that Neal was miserable, which was *not* what Peter wanted. It was something to consider, anyway.

"Okay, it's at the end of the block—whoa. Damn, that's a nice place."

Diana's words brought Peter back from his thoughts, and his eyes widened a little as he took in the building before them. 

"Wow. That is." He glanced back down at the phone, double checking the screen. Yup, that was definitely where the little red dot was, somewhere inside the majestic townhouse at the end of the block.

"Who does Caffrey know that has a place like that?"

"I don't know," Peter said tiredly as he pulled into an empty spot on the street. "But we're about to find out."

o o o

"We could still sneak out the back," Mozzie said as Neal stared down at the collection of monitors, watching as a tiny Peter raised his hand to knock at the door, the young black woman from the office at his side. He'd brought a fellow agent with him. That definitely wasn't a good sign.

Maybe Peter thought it would take two pairs of hands to euthanize Neal? It was a ridiculous idea—Neal wouldn't fight Peter. But then how would the agent know that? Neal *had* shouted at him, broke a shot glass, and stormed out his door less than two hours earlier. Talk about the ultimate in slave rebellion. Neal had never considered himself a rebel before, but there really wasn't any other way to define his behavior tonight.

God, he was disgusting. He was a terrible, horrible, awful slave. Anything Peter had for him, he definitely deserved. What he *really* deserved was to be put down on the spot. Terrible, horrible, awful slaves didn't deserve to live, and that's what rebels were. Terrible, horrible, awful slaves. Neal was a terrible, horrible awful—

"Oh, for God's sake, will you stop silently bashing yourself?" Mozzie snapped, looking annoyed. "And don't even try to pretend that's not what you're doing," he said when Neal looked up at him. "I know you. I can *tell.* I bet right now you're calling yourself a horrible, awful, terrible, bad, bad slave."

"That's not exactly the order, but, yeah, something along those lines," Neal muttered, turning his gaze back to the screens. Madam June was just opening the door.

"Come on, let's get out of here. They can't prove June knew you were in her house, so she'll be fine. We'll stay on the move until I figure out a way to get that thing off your neck without sending us both to the hospital."

The look on Peter's face made Neal's stomach turn. Terrible, horrible, awful, very bad slave.

Mozzie sighed. "You are annoyingly stubborn, you know that?"

"I know you're annoyingly annoying," Neal snapped back, reaching out and turning up the sound to the monitor that showed the sitting room where June was settling the agents on the sofa. "Now shut up. I want to hear what they're saying." He was pretty sure that the words 'terrible,' 'horrible,' or 'awful' would be involved.

"I'm sorry, Agent Burke, but I don't understand," June said in a sweet tone, her face totally clean of any guilt. "You say that the slave boy… Ned, was it?"

"Neal," Peter corrected, looking a little irritated. Neal was pretty sure that June's innocent smile wasn't fooling him at all.

"Right, Neal. You say he's somewhere in my house?" She put a hand over her heart, a shocked look coming over her face. "My, my! I never imagined when I invited him for tea that he would use my home to try and escape his master. It's shameful, truly. Should I be afraid for my life? Rebel slaves are quite frightening. Please, search the house."

Peter sat back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. "Look, I'm going to be straight with you, m'am. I know damn well that you're covering for Caffrey. Well, guess what? So am I. If my boss knew that he ran off and I didn't report it, it would probably cost me my job. But do you see me on the phone to him? No. I just want to find Neal and bring him home before this turns into something really bad.”

A frown crossed June's face. "I don't know what you're implying, Agent Burke, but I must say that I am offended. Are you calling me a liar? Do I *look* like a liar to you?"

Mozzie snorted. "Hell yes, she looks like a liar. That woman's had practice."

"Shut up, Mozzie," Neal said, gritting his teeth. "I'm trying to listen."

The little Peter on the screen shook his head tiredly. "Let's cut the bullshit. If I wanted to, I could have Neal writhing on the ground right now. Hell, if I wanted to, I could have had him unconscious on my lawn two hours ago. I am *not* here to hurt him. I want to help him. But I can't do that if he doesn't come home. I don't know where you've hidden him, but we *will* find him, if we have to rip the entire place down. Hiding a rebel slave is a felony."

"Threats aren't going to work on me, Agent Burke."

"No," he said with a sigh, "I didn't think they would. I know a tough headed woman when I see one. You should meet my wife. I'm not threatening you, m'am, I'm just telling you what *will* happen if Neal isn't back before dawn and I have to tell my boss that he's gone AWOL. I have a feeling that he can probably hear me right now but, in case he can't, just tell him this. I want him home by five o'clock. That *is* an order, from his master. If he wants to become the rebel everyone thinks he is, then so be it. The game is on. But I *will* find him, and when I do, it's going to be out of my hands. Promises only go so far. I won't be able to help him, because it won't be my decision anymore. But I don't think he's a rebel. I don't think he ever was. So just let him know. Five o'clock, not a second later." Peter stood, gathering up the coat he'd laid on the sofa. "Thank you, m'am, for your time. We'll show ourselves out."

Neal dropped his head into his hands, squeezing his eyes shut as Peter's words swam through his mind.

"Uh-uh. Don't do it, Neal. This is what we worked on, remember? He's a fed. The enemy. You do *not* need to do what he says."

Terrible, horrible, awful, bad slave. " I'm not a rebel, Moz," Neal said softly, wincing a little at his friend's pained expression. "You knew that when you took me on."

"Being a rebel isn't necessarily a bad thing—"

"Don't say that," Neal snapped. "It is bad! It is! Rebel slaves are disgusting. What kind of slave betrays their master like that?"

"What kind of master betrays *you* like that?" Moz shot back, looking annoyed. "He tossed you away like garbage, put you through four years of hell! He doesn't *deserve* your loyalty!"

"Masters don't have to deserve their slaves, Mozzie!" Neal said, smacking his thigh. "Why you won't accept that, I don't know! He *owns* me, Moz. I *belong* to him. It has nothing to do with loyalty! I'm *his.*"

"You asked what kind of slave betrays their master," Mozzie replied. "That implies loyalty, Neal!"

"No, it implies that any slave who would betray their master *isn't* a real slave, or they wouldn't be betraying him to begin with!"

Mozzie tossed his hands up in frustration. "This is the same kind of logic the government uses to convince the masses that we actually landed on the moon. It's a bunch of bullshit, Neal! When are you going to get that?"

"Never," Neal said flatly. "I'm never going to get it. Sorry, Mozzie, but your training has failed yet again. I don't get it, and I don't want to get it." He stood abruptly. "I'm going back to Master."

"Oh, he's 'Master' now is he? Not 'my master,' not 'Master Peter,' just 'Master'? Awfully familiar of you. Who was the last man you referred to as just 'Master'? Hm, let me think. Oh yeah, I remember. Vincent Adler. And how did your time with 'Master' turn out?"

Neal's face reddened, his temper surging. "Fuck you, Moz. Master Vincent prized me."

"Oh, well, if he *prized* you." Mozzie sighed. "He abandoned you, Neal!"

"We were *conning* him, Moz. All he did was give us a taste of our own medicine."

Mozzie snorted. "Please. Are you really going to try and convince me that you didn't fall for your own con? You worshipped the ground that man walked on, like the slave you are. You never got the password because you didn't even *try.* If it hadn't been for the Kate mess, you probably would have run off with him."

Neal's mouth dropped open in disbelief. "Are you saying I would have betrayed you?"

Mozzie shrugged. "Well, you don't believe in betraying 'Master.' And since it was an either-or situation, yeah, I think you would have betrayed me."

Neal swallowed hard, the truth of the words slamming into him and the sad look on Mozzie's face making him feel ill. "I-I'm sorry, Moz."

Mozzie sighed, running a hand across his bald scalp. "No. No, don't be sorry. It isn't your fault, Neal. It's who you are. I wish I could change you, but I can't. I don't know how. I just… I just don't want you to get hurt. You're my best friend, man, and you're worth so much more than you realize. I just hate to see it wasted on some Suit with an attitude. But you got to do what you got to do. Go. Run to the Suit. Be the good puppy come home. Just… be careful. I say that I don't want to see you get hurt, but I've already seen it so many times. I don't know how much more I can take, you know? I have no *idea* how you manage. They say a master's strong, but I really think that slaves have free men beat. The things you've seen, the things people have done to you—" His voice cracked and he turned his head away, hiding his face. "Just please, be careful. I'm sick of having to sit back and watch while you get hurt."

o o o

The first hint of dawn had just appeared when Peter heard the soft knock on the door. He stood up, exhaustion hindering his movements, and he rubbed tiredly at his eyes. After much fretting, El had finally gone up to bed a few hours ago, leaving Peter alone to wait by the door.

Peter hadn't even allowed himself to imagine what he would do if Neal didn't come back. No scenario he could come up with had a happy ending, so he had forced the ideas from his mind, convincing himself that Neal *would* be back, that there was no other option. Still, as five o'clock drew closer and closer, worry had begun to stir in his gut.

The knock at the door was like a huge release, all the tension Peter didn't know he been holding in disappearing in a rush.

He moved over to the door, hand hovering over the handle. What if it was just a salesman, or a little girl looking for her lost kitty? What if it was UPS, or FedEx? Basically, what if it *wasn't* Neal? Not that any of those scenarios were very plausible considering that it was 4:55 in the morning. But still…

Peter pushed the thoughts from his mind and reached for the handle, pulling the door open.

There was no one on the porch. Peter blinked, staring out into the darkness for a moment, when a small noise came from below. He glanced down to see Neal's shivering form on his knees in front of the door, head pressed to the ground. It was obvious from the blue tint to his skin that he'd been there awhile, probably working up the courage to knock on the door. Peter couldn't see his face, but he was fairly certain that not all of the shaking could be attributed to the cold.

"Neal," he said softly. "Neal, stand up and come inside."

The slave hesitated for a moment, then Neal slowly raised his head up, though he kept his eyes locked on the ground. He began to climb to his feet, arms slipping behind his back as he followed Peter silently into the house. Peter shut the door quietly behind him and took a deep, steadying breath.

This was it. They'd come to an impasse, he and Neal. It was Peter's move, and what he decided to do might very well shape Neal's fate. It wasn't fair, it wasn't good, but it was reality. And it was about time for Peter to face that reality. He could go on treating Neal like a friend and hoping that he'd suddenly morph into what Peter wanted him to be, or he could follow Diana's advice and give Neal what he needed, at least until they could work out something better. And if insanity was doing the same thing over and over again while expecting different results, then there was only one real choice.

"Your behavior tonight was inappropriate, Neal," Peter said in a steady voice.

Neal stood motionlessly before him, arms locked behind his back and head angled toward the floor. When he spoke, his words were barely audible. "Yes, Master, my behavior tonight was inappropriate. Beyond inappropriate. My behavior tonight was despicable, Master."

Despicable. Peter wouldn't quite go that far, but… "You know I'm going to have to punish you, Neal."

"Yes, Master, I must be punished, Master."

Peter winced slightly at the phrasing, but didn't say anything. It would probably just upset Neal more if he did. "What sort of punishment do you think is appropriate, Neal?"

The slave didn't even hesitate. "Euthanasia is an appropriate punishment, Master."

Peter shut his eyes, swallowing down the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. It took everything he had not to grab Neal and shake him. Euthanasia was an appropriate punishment? *Death* was an appropriate punishment? For a stupid temper tantrum? "We already talked about that, Neal," he said, his voice coming out a little hoarse. "I am not going to put you down, not ever. Let's think of something a little less… drastic, okay?"

"Yes, Master," Neal said, glancing up at Peter through a fringe of curls. "Whipping is an appropriate punishment, Master."

Yeah, because adding another bruise to Neal's already battered body was just what Peter wanted to do. God, he couldn't take this. Not tonight. Not when he was this close to breaking down. He needed time to gather his thoughts, to figure out what it meant, being a 'master.'

"You know what, Neal?" Peter said softly. "I'm too tired for this. Go upstairs to your room and go to sleep. In a few hours I'll come and get you and we'll figure it out then, okay?"

Neal's shoulders tensed and Peter saw a small shiver run through the slave's body. "Of course, Master," he said in a shaky voice. "Whenever it pleases you, Master." There was a definite hint of fear in his voice. Dammit!

Peter rubbed at his face again, feeling tired and frustrated. What the hell was he supposed to do? Hurt Neal to make him happy? That didn't make any sense! Being hurt didn't make anyone happy. But then he supposed the real question wasn't whether Neal would be hurt, it was what would hurt Neal the worst: Being punished tonight or sent off to bed without being punished, feeling confused and scared.

Talk about shitty choices.

Neal's head lifted slightly, enough for Peter to get a good look at his eyes, and his stomach turned a little at what he saw. That was more than a hint of fear. He was terrified. Really, truly terrified.

Peter supposed he had his answer.

o o o

Neal breathed in deeply through his nose, letting it out slowly through his mouth. He felt like he was about to explode, standing there in front of his master, trying desperately to figure out what he was supposed to do. Once again his right answers had turned out to be wrong, and Peter was obviously upset with him for that, on top of the whole running away thing. He just didn't know what he was supposed to do! God, he just wished he knew what to do.

It was all so confusing. Peter had sworn he was disgusted by Neal's time as a prison slave, but obviously he thought Neal deserved to be punished for his crimes. Was it the *way* Neal had been punished that disgusted Peter? The agent claimed Neal had flaunted himself… Maybe he'd wanted Neal for himself and was sickened by the idea that he'd been used by someone else? That made some sense, Neal supposed. 

Or maybe it wasn't the way, maybe it was the number of men. That made even more sense, since prison wasn't exactly the first place Neal had ever been fucked. Or maybe he just didn't like the idea of *prisoners* using him. Peter was very adamant when it came to criminals paying for their crimes. Maybe he found the whole idea of criminals getting that sort of luxury abhorrent.

Neal wasn't sure, wasn't sure about anything at all, really. He wanted desperately to ask, but it wasn't his place. Peter would tell him what Peter wanted him to know. Anything beyond that was none of Neal's business, and after his display tonight, Neal wasn't about to push. He was in enough trouble as it was.

"Goodnight, Master," Neal said quietly as he turned, heading toward the staircase, a sick feeling in his gut.

"Wait," Peter called out, making Neal flinch. God, what had he done now? Spoken out of turn? Left without permission? Said 'goodnight' when, literally, it was the morning?

Neal turned back around slowly, eyes locked on the carpet. "Yes, Master?"

"Bendoverthecouch."

Neal's brow furrowed slightly. "I'm sorry, Master, I didn't understand."

Peter cleared his throat, looking nervous. "I said, erm," he cleared his throat. "I said, bend over the couch."

Neal blinked in surprise. Peter wanted him to bend over the couch? Okay… In no position to argue, Neal did exactly as he was told, bending over the arm of the couch. It was a slightly awkward position since his arms were still locked behind his back, but he'd been in worse. He wasn't sure why, exactly, Peter wanted him bent over. Was he finally going to get around to fucking him?

"Okay, uh… move your arms. You know, off your back."

Okay… Neal obeyed, moving his arms around in front of him.

"I don't have, like, anything to, you know," he cleared his throat again, obviously uncomfortable, "hit you with."

Oh. *Oh.* Peter was trying to punish him. The thought sent a rush of relief through Neal. There was nothing worse than being sent off to wait with the promise of punishment to come. At least if they got it over with, Neal could go off to nurse his wounds in peace without worrying that any second his master might descend upon him and do God knows what. And, given time to imagine, Neal's mind could come up with plenty of horrible things that fit neatly into 'God knows what.'

"You can use your belt, Master," Neal said quietly. "If it pleases you. Should I remove my shirt?"

Peter made a nervous sort of sound. "Yeah. Yeah, take off your shirt."

Neal obeyed, tugging his tie loose then carefully unbuttoning the front. He tugged it free from the tie and draped it over the back of the couch, then returned to his position leaning against the arm rest. Behind him he heard Peter shuffling, but he didn't turn his head.

"Okay," Peter said in a quiet voice. "Okay. It's all good. Yeah. Just remember what Diana said."

"What Diana said, Master?" Neal said, frowning slightly.

"Huh? Oh, no, I wasn't… I was… Nothing. Never mind. I was talking to myself."

Peter sounded *really* nervous, and it was starting to make Neal a little nervous. He wasn't sure what kind of punishment would be enough to make the strong, sure agent uneasy, but he guessed he was going to find out, God help him.

"Okay. One, two…"

Neal braced himself, clenching his jaw tight as he waited for the sting. And waited. And waited. Then…

There was a light slapping against his back, more like a touch than an actual hit. A few seconds later it was followed by another. And another. What the hell was Peter *doing*?

Neal tried hard to choke back his irritation, but it was hard not to be annoyed. Why the hell couldn't Peter just get *on* with it? Why did he always have to draw everything out? Couldn't he just finish it up so that it would be *done* and Neal could stop worrying about it? Not that it was any of his business if Peter wanted to take ten years to punish him. Peter was the master, he could do what he wanted. It wasn't Neal's business at all. He should just keep his big mouth shut…

"Warming up, Master?"

So much for keeping his big mouth shut.

The slapping came to a halt. "What?"

Neal held back a sigh. "If it's for my benefit, there's no need, Master. In fact, I'd really prefer it if you just got on with it already." Oh, God. Had he really just said that? What was *wrong* with him? He'd already done enough to be declared a rebel slave, now he was being mouthy about his *punishment* for acting like a rebel slave? Fucking mixed training. This was all Mozzie's fault. Totally. Neal had been a good slave before he met that man. He hadn't been mouthy at *all*. Okay, maybe he'd been a little mouthy sometimes, and a bit of a know it all, too. But not like he was now. Not even close. It was *totally* Mozzie that had ruined him.

"I'm not… warming up, Neal," Peter said, the words definitely tinged with annoyance. Because annoyed was *totally* what you wanted a master holding a belt to be. Great. Just great. "I'm hitting you!"

"Or massaging," Neal replied without thinking, then visibly winced. Maybe it wasn't Mozzie. Maybe it was *Peter.* Yeah. It had to be Peter. Before Peter had picked up Neal's contract, Neal had been a picture perfect slave. Look at all he had done for Mistress! Peter just made him crazy. That had to be it. Neal was very well behaved. He'd always behaved at prison! Well, until the whole escape thing. And before prison he'd practically been an angel. He'd been a model slave for Master Vincent… except for the whole trying to con him thing. But other than that he'd been good. Right? *Right?*

Oh, who was he fooling? It was totally him.

o o o

Peter stared down at Neal's pale back, his heart pounding too fast as he studied its pale expanse. The bruises from the prison were still vibrant, and the *last* thing he wanted to do was add another color to that rainbow of horror. He'd managed a few light slaps, but even that made him wince, knowing it had to hurt like hell on that already wounded flesh.

"Warming up, Master?"

Peter started slightly, jerking his gaze up. "What?"

"If it's for my benefit, there's no need, Master. In fact, I'd really prefer it if you just got on with it already." There was a snotty edge to the words, and Peter had a feeling Neal was probably wearing that egotistical little smirk he was so good at. Irritating little shit.

""I'm not… warming up, Neal!" Peter snapped back, gripping hard at the belt he'd yanked off. He had a feeling he'd never be able to wear the thing again. "I'm hitting you!" Hitting the battered man. What a brave and noble act.

"Or massaging," Neal shot back, making Peter's mouth drop open. You had to be kidding him. The bastard had freaked out, run off, come crawling back, all because he found out Peter *hadn't* been responsible for his torture, and now he was smart mouthing Peter for not *hitting* him hard enough? Fuck SlaveMart's first time master manuals, Neal Caffrey needed a manual all to himself.

"Shit," Neal said suddenly, sounding surprised. "I'm the worst slave in the universe."

Peter had to choke back a laugh. Where the hell had *that* come from? "Excuse me?"

Neal turned slightly, craning his neck so he could look at Peter. "I'm the worst slave in the universe. Seriously. Why the hell can't I keep my mouth shut?"

This time Peter couldn't hold back his laugh. "I don't know, boyo. Maybe your slave filter got knocked off when your momma dropped you out of her womb."

Neal shook his head. "I was a good slave once. I *was,* Master," he insisted when Peter shot his a slightly disbelieving look. "Pretty much perfect. I really don't know what happened."

"Maybe you found out you had a brain," Peter said flatly. "A discovery more slaves should make."

"Here, give me that," Neal said, reaching out and tugging the belt from Peter's hands. Peter let it go easily, not particularly interested in holding on to it.

"Well, as long as I'm a terrible slave, I might as well show you how to punish a slave, Master," he said, words once again tinged with that know it all attitude. "You do it like this."

Peter let out a short yelp as Neal suddenly flung the belt over his own shoulder, the leather cracking hard against his back.

"Goddammit, Neal, you're already hurt! Don't hit yourself like that!"

Either Neal didn't hear him or he'd decided that, as "the worst slave in the universe," he could do whatever he wanted, because he swung the strap again, striking his shoulder hard.

"Dammit, Neal," Peter snapped as he reached out and yanked the belt from the slave. "Give me that!"

"Yes, Master."

Oh, *now* it was 'yes, master.'

"I do not get you!" Peter said, voice a little desperate. "Diana says that, if I want to help you, I have to be your master. But dammit, Neal, you make it pretty hard! Once second you're mouthy and all over the place, and the next you're Mr. Perfect Slave. So just tell me one thing. Do I really have to hurt you to help you? Is that really how it's going to be Neal?"

Neal's brow furrowed, a confused look coming over his face. "Of course not, Master. What do you mean?"

Peter held up the belt pointedly. "This! This right here! Don't you get it? I don't *want* to hit you, Neal! I don't want to punish you at all! It makes my stomach turn how easily the words 'euthanasia' and 'beating' slip from your lips! I don't *do* those things to people—and before you waste your time saying how you're not 'people,' I don't do that to slaves, either! But it's obvious that you want me to. You want me to hurt you. Tell me why, Neal, because if I'm going to lower myself to that, I need a damn good reason! A *damn* good reason!"

"What? I… Master, I don't want you to hurt me! Do you think I *enjoy* being hurt?" Neal's face was starting to turn red. "Do you think I *ever* enjoyed it? Because I don't! I don't enjoy it! But I don't *want* to be the worst slave in the universe, okay? It may sound like I'm joking when I say that… But that's what I feel like tonight, okay? You laugh, but it's not funny to me. I don't know what free men's mothers tell them when they're little, but mine said, 'I want you to be a very good slave.' All I've ever wanted was to be a very good slave!" 

Neal made an angry, frustrated sound. "I have a friend who's always telling me how lucky I am to be so smart, to know so much, to be able to do so many things. But I don't feel lucky, okay? Because if I didn't have so much going on up here," Neal smacked his forehead lightly, "then it wouldn't be so hard! I think too much. Way, way, way too much. And I wish I didn't. Because it's shameful. That's what I am. *Shameful.* I don't want you to hurt me, but you need to hurt me, because if you don't then I'll never learn. And I'll be a terrible slave forever. And I don't want… I don't want to be that! I want to be a good slave." Neal's voice cracked. "I want to be a good slave for you, Master. I want to be good and stay with you and not go back, not ever go back… But it goes wrong at every turn."

Peter swallowed down the lump growing in his throat and reached out, pulling the slave into his arms. "Hey," he murmured, running a hand through those soft brown curls. "It's okay, Neal. You're not going back. And you are a good slave. You're a very good slave. I'm just not a very good master. I don't know what to do, don't even know what *slaves* are supposed to do. It's my fault that things aren't going right, because I don't understand what 'right' is."

"You shouldn't have to—"

"No," Peter said fiercely, squeezing Neal tightly against him. "I'm the master, right? So I should know what I want. I shouldn't leave you hanging. I didn't understand what I was doing, but that's no excuse. I promise, it's going to change. You and I, we're going to change. This is going to change. You don't need to be afraid anymore, okay? Because I'm going to take care of you now, like a master should. Okay?"

Neal made a soft sound, lifting his face up from Peter's shoulder, and Peter's heart twisted at the strange mix of fear and hope blooming in his eyes. "Really, Master?"

Peter stared down at the slave for a long moment before reaching out and running a finger along Neal's cheek. "I promise," he whispered, studying that beautiful face. "I'll take care of you now." He dropped his head, pressing his lips lightly against Neal's for just an instant before gently pushing the slave away. "Now go upstairs and get some sleep. We still have have to go to work in a few hours."


	12. No Filter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mozzie passes secret messages, Peter meets Trainer Dante Haversham, and Neal finds out who the Dutchman is with the help of a 'Leverage' crossover moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a 'Leverage' crossover moment in this chapter; however, you don't need to know anything about 'Leverage' to understand it. In case you want to know, though, here is the basic info: Alec Hardison and James Sterling are both characters from the show 'Leverage.' Hardison is a hacker, and Sterling is a villain who is played by the same actor who plays the Dutchman in 'White Collar.' In this AU, the 'Leverage' main characters are all rebel criminal slaves doing the same things they do in their show (Sophie is a grifter, Hardison is a hacker, Elliot is a hitter, and Parker is a thief) except for the leader of their group, Nate Ford, who is a free man and anti-slavery liberationist. As a fellow criminal slave, Neal is friends with them, though he is not a rebel like they are. (They basically live as free people and work only for payment.)

"Well, we're here!"

The words were overly exuberant, and came off almost as feigned as the enormous smile on Peter's face. Neal didn't bother to respond, it being pretty damn obvious that they were there, considering that Peter had just pulled into a spot right in front of the damn FBI building. Even a 'yes, Master' seemed pointless when you were twenty feet from the fucking door.

Neal rubbed his palms against his face, holding back a groan. God, he was tired. It was his own damn fault he felt like this, though, and right about what he deserved considering that his master was surely suffering just as much, running on less than two hours of sleep. But deserved or not, it still made a guy grumpy.

"So. Now we're going to get out of the car and go inside. To the office. On the elevator."

Neal winced a little at the words. As desperate as he'd been for his master to put it all out there, Peter was really taking it to extremes, starting off the day with not only an order to come downstairs for breakfast, but also to get out of bed, put on his clothes, put on his socks, put on his shoes, walk down the stairs, sit at the table, and wait for his meal—all in one damn sentence.

Neal's sassy side had taken over at this point, asking if it was okay to blow his nose before all that. Though the sarcasm had been lost on Peter, it had still earned him punishment in the form of an even more precise list of things to do that included combing his hair, washing his face, and cleaning his fingernails. For God's sake, he was a slave, not an idiot.

Of course, if he was completely honest with himself, it wasn't entirely Peter's complete lack of master-sense that had him down this morning. He was confused and unsure, unable to sort out the emotional upheaval of last night into something he could both understand and accept. All the things Peter had said… It had been like a dream, then a nightmare, then a dream once more. Neal wasn't sure what to believe, his heavily wired self-preservation circuits working hard to short out the tiny sparks of hope.

Even if he believed that Peter hadn't known, did that really change anything? Promises of kindness and protection were easily handed out. It didn't mean they would bloom into reality. And if Peter wasn't the cruelly benevolent dictator Neal had believed him to be, then what was he? What did he want with Neal, if his goal wasn't to knock him down? What else did Peter want from him? Not a punching bag, apparently. Sex? That was hard to believe after that soft little kiss.

Neal swallowed hard, staring out the window at nothing. The kiss. He'd never been kissed like that before, so tentative and soft. Not a demand. Just a gentle comfort. It was… different. A good different. If only Neal knew what it meant. For all he knew, it was another trick in a long line of tricks that would eventually lead to tears and pain. The whole situation had the smell of a long con, in Neal's opinion.

Last night, Neal had been surer of the situation, ready to give in and accept that the world he'd been living in was based on a lie. How could he do anything but believe, after that one little kiss, so gentle and caring, had send a shock through his body that he had never experienced before? For an instant the world had seemed so honest and true, and things that had been so cloudy and distorted before were suddenly as clear as diamonds. 

Then Peter had pulled away, and the moment had ended. All Neal's fears had come rushing back, and he'd been left on his own to contemplate the things his master had said, and sleepless hours to ponder whether or not they were true. To review and assess the joys and sorrows of his life, as few and as many as they might be, and do his best to achingly calculate the oh so small probability that this would end well.

If only he could get back that little moment in time, when everything had seemed so clear… If only Peter would touch him once more like that, then maybe he would know. Surely he would know. But dawn had risen, and, if anything, Peter was more aloof than ever, actively avoiding coming within ten feet of Neal, much less pressing their lips together. The second El disappeared into the bathroom, Peter had yanked Neal aside and growled something mostly unintelligible, but which the slave was pretty sure contained the words 'kiss' and 'never happened.' He'd then practically leapt down the stairs, as if he was running from the bogeyman.

So much for clearing up Neal's confusion with a kiss. Neal *hadn't*, however, missed the notable bulge in his master's trousers as he ran for his life. The kiss hadn't been a demand for sex, but it definitely hadn't been innocent, either. So what was it? What reason was there for kissing someone if it wasn't a demand for sex?

Mistress would have known. She was good at deciphering these kinds of things. Neal, however, wasn't sure—but he was sure that he needed to find out, if only for his own sanity. He didn't know how long he could stand living on pins and needles, constantly terrified of what Master Peter would do next. Unfortunately, trusting people was not what Neal did best, and it would take more than one emotional night for him to really believe that Peter wanted nothing more than to play master-in-shining-armor. 

What Neal was very good at, however, was getting men to trust him, and if he could win Peter's trust, maybe he could find out for sure. And Neal had found the best way to win a man's trust was through that bulge in their trousers.

Neal jumped a little as a hand came down on his arm, looking over sharply at his master, cheeks turning a little red at the quizzical look on the man's face. Apparently he'd turned out for a moment.

"So… open your door," Peter said, shifting uncomfortably. "Uh, with the handle."

Neal couldn't resist rolling his eyes this time. "Yes, Master," he said dryly, hand dropping down to the door as he paused. "You did mean *this* door, right?" he asked in an overly innocent voice, turning wide eyes on Peter.

The man's brow furrowed a little, and to his credit a slightly suspicious look did cross his face for a moment, though it was quickly replaced by that forced grin he'd been bearing since breakfast. "That's the one."

Neal rolled his eyes again. What did he need to do, hold up a goddamn sign with the word 'sarcasm' painted on it? For someone so intelligent, Peter sure could be dense sometimes.

"Whatever you say, Dr. Sheldon Cooper," Neal muttered as he climbed out of the car, forcing his exhausted body into action.

"Who?" Peter said, slamming his door shut and hitting the lock on his key, making the Taurus beep.

"Nothing, Master," Neal said, rubbing at his face again. "Just talking to myself, Master."

"Hm. Are you supposed to do that?"

Oh, God help him.

"Whatever you want, Master," Neal said with a sigh, too tired to bother with this.

"Yeah. Okay." Peter shifted from foot to foot, looking at Neal uncomfortably for a moment before turning on his heel and heading resolutely toward the door. Neal followed automatically, trailing a few feet behind him, arms shifting behind his back without him even thinking about it, head tipping down. He stared at the concrete as he walked, doing his best to keep his eyes from glazing over. God, he was really fucking tired.

"Hey, you got a light?"

Neal looked up sharply at the words, eyes widening as Mozzie seemed to appear out of nowhere. Or that was what it looked like to his exhausted mind, anyway. More likely he'd been hiding in the middle of the surprisingly large group of agents puffing on cigarettes like there was no tomorrow. What the fuck was Mozzie doing hanging around the goddamn FBI building? He wouldn't even walk past the public school three blocks from his apartment for fear that 'The Man' would catch him on a secret camera hidden in the monkey bars.

"Excuse me?" Neal said as the little man sort of danced in front of him, waving a cigarette around in the air.

"I asked if you got a light, man," Mozzie replied, putting a hand on his hip as he stared up at Neal. Behind him, Agent Jones detached himself from the Puff Feddies, inching toward them with a suspicious look on his face. Great, just great.

"It's illegal for slaves to smoke," Neal said flatly, not really in the mood for one of Mozzie's little undercover insanities. He was way, way too tired for this conspiracy shit. "What do you want, Moz?"

"Who?" Mozzie said in poorly feigned confusion. "I don't know any 'Moz.' I'm just looking for a light. Hey, you want a cig?"

"It's illegal for slaves to smoke," Agent Jones said dryly as he planted himself next to Moz, a slightly amused look on his face. "But I got a light."

Moz blinked, looking a little off balance. "Oh, uh, thanks…" Instead of holding out the one in his hand, he dug into his pocket, pulling one out of a box of ragged looking Menthols. He paused for a moment then took it in two fingers, breaking it in half for God knows what reason before holding it out to the agent. Jones lit it and Mozzie brought it to his lips, simultaneously wagging his eyebrows in Neal's direction. "I'm hardcore, see? *I tear off the filters.*"

Oh, you had to be kidding him. Neal glanced over at Peter, who was standing about two feet away, one eyebrow raised as he watched them. This was just ridiculous.

"Yeah, that's real hardcore," Neal said, rolling his eyes. "Look, if you have something to tell me, just freaking say it, okay?"

Mozzie let out an irritated sigh, obviously displeased with the way his little undercover op was going. "Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the cage."

"Somebody didn't wake up at all, because somebody didn't get any damn sleep," Neal snapped back, reaching out and grabbing the cigarette from his friend. "Happy now?" he questioned as he yanked off the filter, unrolling the paper and staring down at the words printed neatly inside.

YOU WILL FIND HAPPINESS IN SOMETHING. Lucky Numbers: 7, 5, 2, 8, 4, 9, 1

Neal blinked, his brow furrowing a little. "Is this from a freaking fortune cookie?"

Moz nodded sagely. "A wise man respects his fortune," he said seriously. "Anyway, nice meeting you. And you, too," he added as he ducked between Neal and Jones, moving around to give Peter's shoulder a heavy pat. "Namaste."

"Okay…" Neal said slowly, eyes following Mozzie as he hurried off down the street. "That was weird."

"You smoke now?" Jones questioned, crossing his arms pointedly over his chest.

"Nasty prison habit," Peter cut in before Neal could answer, reaching out and tugging at his sleeve. "Come on, Caffrey. We have work to do."

"Sir, yes, sir," Neal muttered sourly as Peter practically dragged him away from the Lung Cancer Committee and up the stairs toward the building.

"Friend of yours?" Peter questioned in a low voice as they walked through the security center.

Neal gave a soft chuckle. "Something like that, Master. Our paths have crossed before."

"Hm," Peter said, pausing long enough to study Neal, head cocking to the side a little like he was trying to figure something out. "I see." He stared at Neal for another moment before giving a shrug, apparently brushing the incident off, thank God. The last thing Neal wanted was to have to explain his oh-so-complicated relationship with the Dentist of Detroit—something that wouldn't be so easy to do without incriminating his old trainer.

"So. Let's go. You know. Up the elevator. Then out of the elevator. Then into the office. Now. Okay. Yeah…"

Neal sighed. It was going to be a *very* long day.

o o o

Peter let out a sigh as he stared up at the office building in front of him. It looked innocent enough, just another hunk of brick-layered concrete in a world formed of asphalt, nothing really out of the ordinary about it. The neighborhood wasn't exactly glamorous, but it wasn't too bad, either, and this building in particular had a very pleasant, well tended little garden in front. The steps were scuffed from age, as was the big wooden door, but it was clean and tidy. There was no name on the door, just the number 2117. Number 2117, 63rd Avenue.

A sudden breeze washed around him and Peter had to grab for the tiny little scrap of paper in his hand before it blew off, pinching it between two fingers.

YOU WILL FIND THE ANSWERS YOU KNOW NOT YOU SEEK. Lucky Numbers: 2, 1, 1, 7 − 6, 3 − 4, 0, 5 − 1, 0, 0, 1, 2

What the hell was he even doing here? This was crazy, using his lunch break to track down an address slipped in his pocket in the form of a cigarette by some short, balding guy he'd never seen before in his life. Who the hell used cigarettes to send secret codes? People who knew Neal Caffrey, apparently, because it was pretty obvious that Neal had known the guy.

In the end, Peter's curiosity had won out, and here he was. Hopefully it wouldn't kill the cat. Besides, there was really no way Peter could pass up a chance at a few answers. Last night had been insane, with Neal running off, then coming back, then the whipping gone wrong. And that wasn't even taking into account the kiss.

Peter gritted his teeth as the guilt he'd been trying to choke down since his lips had pressed against Neal's tried to claw it's way to the surface. How could he have done that? It was wrong, in so many ways. Neal was his possession, not his lover, and even one kiss was taking it way, way too far. The poor slave had been forced to lay there while man after man abused him for four solid years! 

No, that was looking at it with too narrow a scope. Neal's four years as a prison slave wasn't the only time in his life he'd been wrongfully used. He was an effling, a fuckling. Sex had been forced on him his entire life, since he was a little boy. Then along came Peter, swooping in, so sure of himself, up on his high horse, so certain he'd never hurt anyone in that way. But what had last night been, if not the first step down that path?

And what about El? His sweet, wonderful, beloved, honey? How could he betray her like that? She was the one he loved, with her gentle spirit and kind smile, not some suave, snarky slave. And yet it had happened. It had just seemed like the thing to do, as he stood there holding his weeping slave in his arms. Neal had seemed so broken, so desperate, and Peter had wanted to make it all go away. As if what Neal really wanted was another sick bastard's hands on his body. Peter swallowed hard. He was terrible. He was despicable. He was—

He was *so* not going there anymore!

Peter shook his head rapidly to clear it, making a face. He really needed to stop angsting over this. It was one tiny kiss, just meant to make Neal feel better. It had been stupid, but Neal would get over it, and El never needed to know. It didn't mean *anything* and he needed to stop acting like it was a profession of love or anything ridiculous like that. And as for his slave—after spending four years getting fucked ten times a day, Peter seriously doubted a peck on the lips had fazed Neal.

He certainly hadn't seemed bothered when Peter had pulled him aside and made it very clear that their lip locking was *not* going to be a dinner table topic. In fact, he hadn't seemed to care. Why that sort of bothered Peter, the agent didn't want to think about. It was time to move on. And, hopefully, to find some answers about what he was starting to think of as The Secret Life of James Bondage.

Peter pushed open the door to the building, moving across the cramped lobby toward the elevator, punching the button. He took a steadying breath as the doors opened with a creak and he stepped inside, hitting the button for the fourth floor then straightening his lapels, just for something to do.

A few moments later the elevator binged and the doors creaked open once more, revealing a tidy looking hallway with fake ferns separating a half a dozen doors.

Peter stepped out and walked down the hall, scuffing his wingtips on the pattered green and blue carpet as he inspected the doors. Most of the offices held either doctors or lawyers, and Peter's stomach turned a little at the thought that some legal team might have found out about the Seize and Destroy order on Neal. 

Maybe they had tagged him the in the Registry’s CCTV footage? No, that didn't make any sense. Neal had clearly known the little man who'd slipped Peter the note, and he hadn't seemed worried in the least. In fact, he'd been pretty brash with the guy.

Number 405 was the last office, and Peter came to a halt in front of it, eyebrows shooting up in surprise as he read the name on the door.

Dr. Dante Haversham, Certified Slave Trainer.

A CST? The little bald man was a CST? Seriously? Neal had talked to the guy like he was talking to a friend—something slaves did *not* do to CSTs. To become a Certified Slave Trainer you needed a PhD in Slave Psychology as well as at least two years of internship at a State Training Center. Very few trainers were actually state certified to train, and CSTs were known as some of the toughest, more hardcore slave trainers out there.

Was this the man who had trained Neal? Peter found it hard to believe, considering how Neal had spoken to him. Plus, Neal had come from SlaveMart, and SlaveMart wasn't known for its quality trainers. But how else would a slave know a CST?

Maybe Neal had belonged to the guy? Peter shook his head. No, that didn't make sense, either. Neal wouldn't talk to a former master like he'd talked to this man. What the hell was going on here?

Only one way to find out. Peter lifted a hand and knocked three times on the door.

A few moments passed before Peter heard some rustling, then the door swung open, revealing the little bald man, complete with geeky glasses and a deep scowl.

"About time you showed up, Suit," he said, already moving toward the empty reception desk on the opposite side of the room, gesturing for Peter to follow him. "I don't have all day, you know. Close the door behind you."

"Excuse me?" Peter said as he trailed behind him, shaking his head in disbelief. "Are you implying that *I'm* inconveniencing *you*? You're the one who slipped your address in my pocket!"

The man sniffed as he yanked open another door, leading off to another small hallway. "Whatever," he said stiffly. "Not the point." He stopped before one of the little rooms, waving for Peter to enter. "Now sit down."

Peter scowled, hackles going up, and he planted his feet in the doorway, staring the other man down. "Just who do you think you are, ordering me around? Do I look like a slave? I'm an agent of Vice Collar. All it would take is one call from me and your license would disappear."

"Gee, I'm terrified," the man said dryly. "Now sit down already. I want to talk about Neal."

Peter glanced between the man and the doorway for a moment, then let out a sigh, his curiosity getting the best of him. He stepped into the room, eyebrows going up as he did a short inspection of its contents.

The room was set up very much like a doctor's office, complete with padded table/chair, and various pieces of medical equipment. What wasn't so doctorly were the straps attached to the patient table and the various whips and bats hanging on one wall. There was a medical cabinet along one wall with what Peter guessed was some sort of branding or marking equipment in it and, on the wall across from the padded table, hung a large screen TV.

"You want me to sit on that?" Peter said, eyeing the padded table doubtfully.

"Sit or don't sit," the little man said shortly, actually stepping up onto a stool so he could perch on the cabinet next to the branding machine. "Not the point."

"So what is the point?" Peter questioned, choosing to sort of lean against the table rather than sit on it. The whole room was making him feel a little nauseous, the memory of the deep markings left on Neal's body from the strap system not helping the situation. "I'm assuming there *is* a point to me being here. Who the hell are you anyway, organizing secret meetings with government agents?”

"My name is Haversham," the man said, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as he studied Peter. "And like I said, I want to talk about Neal."

"Just how is Neal any of your business?" Peter shot back, crossing his arms over his chest as he glared at this Haversham fellow.

A small smile flittered across Haversham's face for an instant, before being replaced by a maudlin sort of look. "Because I trained him."

Peter's breath caught slightly. So this really was Neal's trainer. "Well, then you'll be pleased to know that I plan to be back here in an hour with a warrant for your arrest," he said coldly, eyes narrowing. "For the training and selling of underage efflings."

Haversham snorted, shaking his head. "Oh, don't be dense, Suit. I didn't train him as a kid. Honestly, do I look like a pleasure trainer? Anybody can teach a slave to fuck. It takes a real master to teach a slave to *live.*"

"What does that even mean?" Peter snapped, brow furrowing a little.

"I taught Neal everything he knows," Haversham replied, sounding proud. "Well, everything useful, anyway. From lock picks to carrier pigeons, he got it from me. Well, not the forgery skills—he came with those—but everything else."

"Are you confessing to criminal training methods?" Peter asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm not confessing to anything," the man snapped. "I'm here to give you a warning."

Peter's eyes narrowed. "Listen here, trainer. You do *not* want to threaten me."

"Who said anything about threatening you?" he snapped back, an amused look passing over his face. "You misunderstand me, Suit. I'm not here to rally on Neal's behalf. He's proven over and over again that he can take care of himself. This little visit? It's for your benefit. And I suggest you listen hard, because my rent's up next week and I plan to clear out of here by tomorrow. But out of the kindness of my heart, I've brought you, a slave of the system, here to warn you of the one thing you must not do when it comes to slave Neal."

"And what is that?" Peter questioned, the dead seriousness of the man's gaze putting his nerves on the edge.

A dark smile crossed Haversham's face. "I brought you here to warn you: Don't fall in love."

o o o

Neal leaned back in his chair as the phone began to ring, tugging at the edges of his little paper fortune. Lucky Numbers: 7-5-2-8-4-9-1. Or, in a more sensible form, 752-8491.

"Hey, brother, you reached Leverage Incorporated, Hardison here. I'm sorry we can't come to the phone right now, but leave a message at the beep and Master Nate Ford will be happy to get back to ya as soon as possible. Or whenever he's sober, anyway." BEEP.

Neal's eyebrows shot up, his lips curling into a wide smile as he recognized the voice. "Hey, Alec, it's Neal Caffrey. Long time, no see. If you could give me a call—"

His words were cut off by a loud beeping noise, and an exuberant voice said. "Caffrey? Is that really you? Hey man, what up?"

Neal laughed, all his exhaustion forgotten at the sound of his old friend's voice. "The one and only. 'Master Nate Ford'? Seriously? Since when did the Terminator of the insurance recovery biz keep slaves? Especially ones with criminal records as long as yours?"

"Oh, you think that's bad?" the man exclaimed. "It ain't just me! He's got a contract on Parker, Elliot Spencer, and—get this—Sophie Devereaux! In fact, he owns Sophie under three different names."

Neal let out a whistle. "I always knew their relationship was kinky, but damn… What the hell does he need the best thief, grifter, and hitter slaves this side of the Atlantic for? I thought he was a good guy."

Hardison made a snorting sound. "Oh, it's crazy. He's gone all Robin Hood, taking from the rich and giving to the poor. Of course, he drops quite a few bucks in our banks before he scatters the riches to the common man. Hence our abnormal devotion. What about you, man? I thought you were in prison."

"I'm out," Neal said shortly, not interested in getting into it. "Moz gave me your number. I need some help."

"Anything for you, my man," Hardison said. "I still owe ya one from the Restless Driver Job."

Neal laughed. "Oh, that was a good one. I can do basic tech, but working with the number one hacker in the world sure has its ups."

"You know it, baby. So what's up? I take it you got a tech question for me?"

"Yeah," Neal said, reaching down and picking up the confiscated slave tracker he'd very quietly sneaked out of Evidence that morning. "I have something for you to look at…"

o o o

"I brought you here to warn you: Don't fall in love."

Peter blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I said, don't fall in love." The man gave a little shrug. "I thought you deserved fair warning."

Fair warning? What the *hell*?

"I will have you know that I am very happily married," Peter snapped, standing abruptly. "Not that I need to explain myself to you, whoever you are. I think I'll be going now." He strode pointedly across the room.

Haversham let out a laugh, shaking his head. "Oh, give it up, Suit. I see how you look at Neal. It's obvious you have a hard on for him. I get it. The guy is hard to resist. All I'm saying is to make sure it doesn't go beyond that. Because there's nowhere to go from there but down. Love and slaves don't mix. Hell, just look at the mess with Kate Moreau."

Peter stopped with his hand on the doorknob, turning slowly to look back at the Haversham fellow. "What do you know about Kate Moreau?"

"I know that when a tree falls in an empty forest, it *does* make a sound." Haversham opened a drawer and pulled out a manilla file, tossing it onto the exam table with a soft thump.

Peter bit his lip, glancing back and forth between the trainer and the folder. He should leave. He really should. Whoever this man was, he was obviously out of his mind, talking to Peter about not falling in love. As if anyone could ever usurp his wonderful wife's place in his life. Last night? It had been one little kiss. And only to make Neal feel better. It hadn't meant anything. And even if it had meant something, that 'something' wasn't *love.* Obsession, perhaps, with the slightest edge of lust. But definitely, definitely not love. Just a kiss. It didn't *mean* anything.

Right?

Peter let out an irritated sigh, making his way back over to table. "I'm assuming you're referring to more than the tree harvested to make this file?"

Haversham flashed him a rather mysterious grin as Peter flipped open the folder. Inside was a somewhat blurry picture of Neal's Mistress. It was taken from an awkward angle—probably CCTV footage—and was mostly made up of the top of her head and face. The background was blurrier than her features, making it next to impossible to discern anything about the location. Only one thing stood out.

Peter swallowed hard, stomach turning as he stared at the beefy hand grasping the woman's shoulder. The beefy hand sporting a big, fat gold signet ring. It was a ring Peter recognized. How could he not? He had an identical one stashed away in his bedroom between Grandmother Emma's old pearls and El's favorite pair of diamond studs.

Neal's former Mistress was consorting with the FBI. And no one had bothered to tell Peter about it.

"So what do you think?" Haversham questioned, raising an eyebrow.

Peter feigned a cough as he tried to recover, his head spinning madly. What could the FBI possibly want with an erudite wannabe, metaphorical blonde bimbo like Kate Moreau? Other than her good looks, there wasn't much to her. The few attempts she made at con artistry had been too pitiful for the FBI to even bother to make her a file. She was just a name stuffed away in the many tomes dedicated to James Bondage—Of course. Neal. They wanted Neal. Why else take Kate? As a person, she was useless. But as Neal's Mistress? She, alone, controlled the best forger they'd seen in decades.

Peter picked up the photo, trying to keep his face expressionless as he studied it, pulse racing madly as his eyes traced the line of that big, masculine hand with its oversexed ode to many years of dedication to the Feds. Was Reese keeping secrets from him? This whole thing with Neal, had it been planned to begin with? Had he somehow been manipulated into this situation? And if so, for what purpose? Peter had been a loyal agent for years! Long enough to earn that damn ring himself! Why, why, *why* would they keep something like this from him? Unless… Unless the FBI wasn't actually involved in an official capacity.

"Well?" Haversham said again, leaning forward eagerly. "What is it? What do you see?"

Peter quickly shut the folder, turning his attention back to the other man. Whatever was going on, he wasn't about to share it with an ill-reputed slave trainer with criminal contacts. "Obviously Ms. Moreau's disappearance wasn't a one man show. Someone else was involved."

The little man's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I think that's pretty obvious. But you saw something more than that. I know you did. I saw it in your eyes."

Peter set his gaze upon him, scowling deeply. "What I do or don't see is none of your business. For that matter, none of this is your business at all. Neal is my property. He belongs to *me.* I don't care if you raised him from birth. He's mine now, and I want you to stay away from him."

Haversham gave a snort. "Do I look like the kind that follows the rules, Suit?"

"I'm taking this," Peter said shortly, picking the file back up. "And then I'm leaving. I suggest you stay far, far away from me—and from my slave—or you, Mr. Dante Haversham, might find your certification under rather intense scrutiny."

"Wow, talk about a lack of appreciation. Here I was, just trying to give you an honest warning—"

"A warning that was entirely unnecessary," Peter said through clenched teeth.

"—But I see now that there was no point," Haversham continued as if he hadn't spoken. "Obviously you're already in love with him. I was just trying to save you the fall. It's a hard one, I can tell you from experience. But go on, now. Off ye back to service Uncle Sam's twisted needs. It's been my pleasure."

Peter shook his head, glaring at the man as he stuffed the file into his briefcase. "I hope so. Because it's definitely not been mine."

o o o

"Okay, I got the transfer…" The sound of keys clicking came over the line. "Scanning information. Whoa. I mean, like, seriously whoa. This is some vintage shit here, man. A Macintosh tracker? Like, a real life, honest to God, Macintosh tracker? This is like techie heaven!"

"Not as 'honest to God,' as you'd think," Neal said dryly, running his fingers across the small display. "It's a fake."

"Yeah… I see that," Hardison replied, sounding disappointed. "The top layer of code is period—very 1980s—but underneath is a hidden algorithm that is definitely 21st century. Too bad. I'd love to get a looksie at the original thing."

"Unfortunately, somebody took the original and replaced it with this. The question is: Who did it?”

"Well, they did a good job of it," Hardison said. "Not as good as I could, mind you. This was definitely the job of a forger, not a hacker. Everything *looks* perfect, but if you get deep down into the programming, it's pretty obvious that the tech outdates the eighties. Not that anyone checking this thing would be able to see that. You'd need a hacker of my skillset, and we all know that just doesn't exist."

Neal chuckled, shaking his head. "Yes, you are the best, Alec. But whoever made this was damn good, too. The Fed's best techies couldn't find anything to mark this a fake."

"Like I said: The Fed's best techies aren't me. Hell, I managed to break through the trojan horse system, but even I can't trace it back to who made it."

"Damn," Neal muttered, letting out a sigh. "Well, thanks for looking—"

"Lucky for you," Hardison interrupted, his grin practically audible, "I don't have to trace it back. 'Cause he signed it."

Neal's eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"Yup," Hardison said, sounding satisfied. "Right there in the code. Here, I'll send it to you."

Neal's computer screen blinked and, a moment later, a text image appeared. Formed out of dollar signs on a background of underscores was the word 'JSilver,' and a webcam view of Hardison popped up alongside it.

Neal's brow furrowed. "J Silver? I haven't heard of him."

"Oh, but I think you have," Hardison said, flashing a smile. "J Silver, known by the authorities as James Sterling, former investigative slave for Interpol." An image of a small, dark haired, balding man appeared on the screen. "Better known in forgery circuits as—"

"Curtis Hagen," Neal finished, eyes widening. "I can't believe I didn't recognize this as his work! Mid-eighties slave tech was his specialty at Interpol! No one is as knowledgeable about those devices as Hagen, and after his screw up got your Master off scott free with the law, he's got to be desperate."

"Hell, yeah," Hardison said, nodding. "Interpol sold him to SlaveMart America for a dollar, just to punish him. Coming from a liberal country like England, it might as well have been a death sentence. He's been on the run ever since."

Neal leaned back , crossing his arms over his chest. "Unbelievable. Curtis Hagen. I haven't seen him since France, 1999." He let out a little laugh, heart pounding. "Thank you so much, Alec. I owe you one."

This was it. His ticket out, for good. No more Mr. Prison Slave.

Now it was time for Operation: Woo Master.


	13. Give Credit...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vincent Adler is a jerk, Peter makes stupid assumptions, the hat stealer is a prick, and Neal admits to who-knows-what.

"Danke für das Nennen des Schweizer Kredites. Ihr Anruf wird so bald wie möglich beantwortet. Pour le Français, presse une. In Italiano, premere due. For English, press three."

Peter obeyed, tapping his fingers impatiently on his desk as hold music began to play. He really needed to finish this up before Neal got back from lunch.

"Hello, you have reached the Suisse Credit," came a heavily accented voice. "How is it I may help you?"

Peter smoothed out the piece of paper in front of him, squinting at Neal's script. "Hi there. I would like some information on an account, number 27685470XG. Name, Nicholas Adler."

"The password you have, sir?"

"Ah, yes. It's, um, ancient lyre. That's L-Y-R-E, like the instrument."

There was a short pause then the woman spoke again. "Yes, okay. Here we be… It seems there is password secondary. You have password secondary, sir?"

"Saint George."

"Wonderful sir. How is it I may help you?"

"Could you give me the balance?"

"Yes, of course. Balance is eight hundred and forty three thousand three hundred and nine Euros."

"And what is that is American dollars?" Peter questioned, mind racing as he tried to do the calculations in his head.

"At current exchange rate, money is one million, one hundred twenty five thousand and four hundred United States dollars, plus or minus some change."

Peter sat back, feeling like he'd been punched in the chest. Neal hadn't been kidding. This whole time he'd had access to over a million dollars and he'd never used it. It made no sense. He'd pulled off elaborate heists, sold dozens of versions of himself to unsuspecting slavemasters, and conned his way into businesses, all in the name of making money for his precious mistress when, all along, he'd had a fortune sitting in a Swiss bank account. A fortune he'd kept secret from his mistress—but not from Peter. What did that mean? Peter didn't have a clue.

"Is there anything more I can do for sir?"

Peter cleared his throat. "Um, yes, actually. Could you tell me if there is an address linked to the account?"

"No address is linked, sir, but would you like me to send you the file?"

Peter frowned. "The file?"

"Yes, there is a flag on the account. Electronics file with a note to forward to all account holders on request."

"Yes," Peter said, "I would like that very much." He gave the woman his email address and, a moment letter, a binging sound from his computer let him know that the e-mail had, indeed, arrived.

"Have a nice day, sir."

"You too," Peter said distractedly as he pulled up the message. The account number was in the subject line and there was no body to the message, just a single attachment. An electronic message, apparently meant for Neal… It was… intriguing, to say the least. He really should wait until Neal got back from lunch—whatever the message was attached to the account, it was Neal's business, not his. Okay, technically it was his business since he owned Neal, but the upstanding thing to do would be to wait until Neal was with him. That is, if Neal wanted him to see it at all…

Oh, screw it. Neal had been the one to give him the damn account info. Peter double clicked the attachment.

A video flashed to life and Peter's mouth drop open in disbelief at the man suddenly smirking out at him.

No way. No frickin' way. Oh hell, he really should have guessed. Nicholas Adler. Adler as in *Vincent* Adler.

Neal's good samaritan was White Collar's baddest crook.

o o o

Neal studied the floor beneath his feet like it was a priceless Picasso, trying his best to ignore the fact that he was standing in a lunch line surrounded by people who were both free men and federal agents. Talk about double the reason not to be there.

He really wasn't comfortable being here, wandering around with no written permission, but Peter had been firm about him going to the cafeteria for lunch. Something about personal issues to deal with, as if Neal believed that for a second. You didn't get much more personal than being someone's fuckling. 

Whatever Peter was doing, it was something he felt like he had to hide from his slave, and somehow Neal didn't think it was his afternoon grooming ritual or a surprise date he was arranging for his wife. And if it actually was, God knew Peter could use Neal's help on both of those fronts.

Maybe he was coming up with an appropriate punishment for Neal's little stunt last night, seeing as the so-called 'whipping' hadn't even left him sore. Whatever it was, Neal really wished Peter had given him a slave pass to flash if anybody gave him any trouble.

"Next."

Neal stepped up to the lunch lady, flashing her his most handsome smile. "Slave lunch, m'am."

"Yeah, I can see that," she replied in an unimpressed voice deep enough to make Neal question his original evaluation of her as, well, a 'her.' "Move along, sweet cheeks."

There was a plop as a lump of… something… dropped onto his plate. Neal moved on, settling a cup of water on his tray before turning to view the cafeteria.

It was a large room, but since it was noon, a good number of the tables were filled. Of course, Neal wasn't looking for a seat with the free men. One day at the FBI building and he'd already gotten into a bad situation; he did *not* want that to happen again. Somewhere around here there would be a place for—

Bingo.

Neal walked silently around the exterior of the room, eyes fixed on a metal door partially hidden by a fake palm tree. Through the silk palm branches you could just make out a yellow triangle, and Neal would bet his best tie that there was a kneeling stick figure printed on it.

Not all buildings had slave depositories (or as slaves called them, break rooms) but since Peter had spent so much time insisting that the FBI office was free of slaves, Neal had been sure that this one had at least a couple, probably one on each floor. If not, the slaves did a good job of hiding themselves behind copy machines or whatever, because there were definitely slaves all over this building. Neal had seen at least four since they'd gotten there that morning.

Slaves prided themselves on their ability to blend into the scenery, the true chameleons of society, but as a slave himself, Neal knew what to look for even if their slave markings were subtle.

Slaves tended to move with more purpose than free men, with no idle strolling about, chit chatting, or coffee breaks. They also had a habit of keeping their heads down, literally. Most notably, slaves were as polite as hell. Not many free men bothered to hold the elevator for five minutes or offer somebody their place in line or open the door for a dozen people. 

Neal had seen all of those things happen today, however, and if Peter was really unaware of how many slaves worked in this building then that meant there had to be places for them to hide away when they weren't needed. Like at lunch hour.

Neal pushed the palm branches aside. There it was. Yellow triangle, kneeling slave. The national symbol for a slave depository. Balancing his tray on one arm, Neal pulled the door open and slipped in as surreptitiously as possible.

The room was hardly more than a dim closet, ten feet by twelve feet of concrete with a bare bulb dangling from the ceiling, but there were four slaves already in it. The kid pushed up against the far wall was taking up the most space, locked in a cage he was obviously supposed to grow into, seeing as it was big enough for an adult male and he wasn't more than nine or ten. Talk about comfortable living. Sitting up against the wall next to him was a pretty female with an ample bosom dressed in a rather skanky looking red dress, playing idly with her long, blonde hair. Sitting across from one another were two average looking males of average size sporting matching janitorial garb. Both janitors were using their fingers to eat the same goop that had been dumped on Neal's plate while the kid watched them intensely, a ravenous look on his face.

"Hey," Neal said as he shut the door behind him, making a face at the amount of dirt covering the floor that he was going to have to sit on if he didn't want to eat standing up.

"Hey," one of the janitors replied, licking food off his fingers.

Conversation officially over, Neal slid down the wall to sit on the concrete floor, saying a silent prayer of forgiveness to Byron as he did so. Good thing Neal had worked at a dry cleaner in the past. He could do wonders with a bowl of water, two teaspoons of detergent, some baking soda, and a hair dryer.

The room was silent, but not uncomfortably so, considering that good slaves weren't exactly gossip mongers and food was a much bigger priority than chit chat whether you were a good slave or not. After all, a slave never knew for sure where his next meal might be coming from.

It was this principle that allowed Neal to dig his fingers into his own food and start shoveling it like it was pistachio gelato. In fact, it seemed to be a strange mix of mashed potatoes, soggy corn flakes, beef broth, and meatloaf. Probably the things that had been left over on yesterday's plates after the free men left the cafeteria. The janitors would know for sure—they were the ones who had collected it, after all.

"Never seen you before," the kid said suddenly, and the female slave reached through the cage, giving him a hard swat to the cheek.

"You know you're not supposed to talk, Root Beer," she said, shaking her head in disapproval. "That's why you're locked up in here instead of at school, serving your little Master like a good boy. You need to learn to keep your mouth shut."

The kid covered his eyes with his hands and ducked his head.

"It's okay," the female said generously, probably pleased that the kid had expressed his apology non-verbally instead of speaking again. "You'll be a good boy someday." She reached through the bars again, ruffling his short brown hair. "This is Root Beer. He's a whipping boy."

"Yeah, I guessed that from his name," Neal said with a chuckle. "Root Beer, huh? I guess that's what happens when they let eight year old masters name their slaves."

One of the janitors laughed. "Well, an eight year old didn't name me, but I still ended up as Bob One."

"I'm Bob Two," the other said dryly. "Head of maintenance really likes his Bobs. That there is Lula." He nodded in the female's direction. "You can guess from her itty bitty dress what she does during coffee breaks."

"Yeah, I think I can," Neal said, offering his fellow fuckling a tight smile. "I'm Neal. I'd offer to shake your hand, but it's kind of covered in… whatever this is." He held his messy hands up to demonstrate, making Lula giggle.

"Who you belong to, Neal?" Bob One asked. "I'm guessing from the fancy suit you don't belong to the building." He lifted up his plate to his mouth, licking off the last of his lunch.

"Agent Peter Burke," Neal replied, licking his own fingers clean.

"Are you going to be spending the days in here with me?" Lula asked, a hopeful lilt to her voice. It couldn't be much fun, stuck in a cupboard all day just so your master could slip in and get his rocks off between conference calls.

Neal shook his head. "No. I'm sort of a… consulting slave, I guess."

"Oh, too bad," she replied with a sigh. "You're so pretty, I thought maybe…"

"Agent Burke, huh?" Bob Two said. "He's Vice Collar, ain't he? I thought he wasn't too fond of slaves. Master told me to avoid his office during working hours. Says he don't take too well to havin' to see us around and about when he spends all his time puttin' us away."

Well, that explained why Peter never saw slaves in the Fed building. For all they knew, Peter 'not being too fond of slaves' might very well translate into 'beats the living shit out of slaves on sight.'

"It's a weird situation with Master Peter. I can't talk about it."

"Okay," Bob Two said with a shrug as he turned his attention back to his food, reminding Neal of why talking to slaves was so relaxing. Mozzie would never have let it go at that. Slaves tended to have things like curiosity beaten out of them at a young age.

It was kind of nice, for once just being one in a bunch nobodies that no one gave a damn about, surrounded by slaves who knew the rules and didn't pressure you to bend them. Just sitting here where his big mouth couldn't get him in trouble. It felt… safe.

BANG!

Lula let out a short cry and the two Bobs sat up at attention as the door shook.

"You really think he's in there?" a voice came through the wood.

"Where else would he be? I know he went to the caf and he's not at any of the tables. He's got to be in there."

Neal's stomach turned a little as he recognized the voice of the second man. It was the hat stealer. The hat stealer was outside the door.

"You keep look out. I'll be done in a few minutes."

The door opened with a loud creak and Neal swallowed hard, pulse speeding up. Somehow he didn't think the hat stealer was looking for the Bobs.

This was not good. Not good at all.

o o o

"This account was created as a safety net for my favorite possession—a possession I very much intend to own again one day and, therefore, could use some insuring. I put in an application to Sterling Bosch, but it was rejected. My favorite toy will appreciate the irony of that." Adler gave a short laugh, leaning back in his chair and stretching. "If you are watching this video, it means one of two things: Either my slave has told you about this account of his own free will, or his body is lying in shreds somewhere, the information ripped from him through whips and canes."

Peter's eyebrows shot up. Apparently this video wasn't meant for Neal after all.

"Whichever it may be," Adler continued rather ominously, "does not fare well for you. But before I get into that, there is something you should see. So sit back, relax, and enjoy a little trip down memory lane."

The close up of Adler disappeared, replaced by a wide view of an office. Adler was leaning up against a desk, smirking. The door opened and Adler gave a pointed wink to the camera as Neal entered the room, shoulders slumped and head hanging down.

"Hello, boy," Adler said in a cool tone. "I see you've been to the bank."

Neal looked up, a look of shame on his face. "Yes, Master," he said quietly. "I've been to the bank, Master."

"And what did you find?"

"A dollar, Master," he replied, dropping his head down again. "I found a single dollar, Master."

Adler chuckled. "You are very clever, Nicholas—or should I say 'Neal', now? As clever as a slave can be, for certain. But you are not cleverer than I. You know that, don't you, Nicholas?"

"Yes, Master," Neal said, cheeks reddening.

"You're only a slave, pet. Your abilities when it comes to besting fools have made you forget what you are." Adler shook his head. "I should put you down, if not for the act of lying to your master, then for the pitifulness of your little con job."

Neal swallowed hard, raising his head again to look Adler in the eyes. His cheeks had gone from red to white as a sheet. "Y-yes, Master. Th-That would be an appropriate punishment."

Adler let out a sigh, rolling his eyes. "Oh, quit stuttering and come kneel."

Neal obeyed, moving forward and dropping to his knees in front of Adler, who reached out to stroke his hair.

"I'm not putting you down, boy. I've found your fumbling attempts at deception quite amusing." He tipped Neal's chin up with his finger, then put a hand on either cheek, holding the slave's head in place. "I'm more angry with whatever foolhardy free man put you up to this than I am with you—and yes, I do know someone put you up to this. You're only a slave, born to trust his master, and it was cruel of him to convince you that you are comparable to a man such as me, much less able to pull the wool over my eyes. I'm sorry he did that to you, boy."

A tear ran down Neal's cheek and Peter gritted his teeth, wishing he could take a swing at Adler right then.

"I'm so sorry, Master. I love you. I swear I love you."

He loved a man who treated him like an animal? Somebody needed to show Neal what real love was, because this was just sad.

"I know, pet," Adler murmured, running his fingers through Neal's hair again. "And that's why I am going to make sure no one ever takes advantage of you again." He reached into his pocket, holding up a square of paper. "I have here the number to a personal account under the name of Nick Adler. The password is ancient lyre."

"Nice try, Neal," Neal said with a huff of laughter. "Just like the other account."

"Nice try, Neal," Adler agreed, smiling down at the slave. "There is enough money in there for you to live off of for a lifetime. In a few hours, every employee and investor of Adler Industries is going to be broke. They will discover what it is like to be fools amongst great men. I will have to flee then, and I cannot take you with me. Instead, I will be handing over your bill of sale to the lady you love so much."

Neal physically flinched at that, an ashamed look passing over his face. "I swear, Master, I never—"

Adler held up a hand, and Neal instantly fell silent. Somebody needed to teach Peter that trick.

"I know. But she will make a good mistress for you. I want to make one thing clear, however. The money in this account is for you and you alone. I know you have a hard time understanding the concept of possession, but I am giving this money to you. It is for your personal use, not for your master's."

"Y-you want me to lie to my master?" Neal said, looking disturbed, and Adler laughed out loud.

"You say that as if you haven't been lying to me for months," he said, shaking his head. "But don't worry—if a master forces it from you, I promise you this: he will not live to spend a cent. I will destroy him and everything he loves." He turned his head, looking dead into the camera. "This account is not only for your survival; it is for your protection. Use it like a fist. Use it like a sword. If someone hurts you, give them the account, and I will deal with them. Do you understand me, little one?"

"Yes, Master," Neal said, a slightly shocked look on his face. "I-I understand …Thank you, Master."

Peter's heart sped up a little as Adler winked at the camera one final time before the screen went dark. A second later and the close up of Adler was back, and the smirk was back with him.

"Tell me, Agent Peter Burke, why do you think he did it?"

Peter jumped at the words, eyes growing wide. What the hell? He glanced around frantically.

"Don't bother looking for hidden cameras or live feeds," Adler said with a laugh. "This is a recording—I made it the moment I heard you'd taken my slave under your wing. I'm no fool. Really, though, why do you think he did it? Didn't you wonder, when he first gave it to you? Didn't you wonder *why*?"

Peter's brow furrowed in confusion. What was Adler talking about?

"Did you think it was because he trusted you? Did you think it was because he feared you? Or, dare I say it… because he *loved* you? Why, why, *why* would your new slave give you all the information to a bank account with over a million dollars? Why you and not his precious Mistress Kate or the funny little man who does his best to ruin my pet? Did you think you were different? Did you think you were special? I bet you never thought it was because he wanted you dead."

Peter's whole body tensed as the meaning of Adler's words sunk in. 'Use it like a fist. Use it like a sword.' No way. Neal wouldn't have. Neal wasn't that kind of person! Slave. Whatever. Neal was a lot of things, but he wasn't a killer, and he would never betray Peter like that! Would he?

Adler chuckled darkly. "Are you having a hard time believing it, Agent Burke? You shouldn't—after all, you just heard it for yourself. This account is not only for precious Neal's survival, it's for his protection. And he gave it to you. He might as well have put a target on your back."

No. No way. It couldn't be. It *couldn't!* Peter's stomach twisted, a sick feeling washing over him. No. Not Neal. Not the man he… The slave he… Not Neal. Not his Neal.

"Is your whole world tumbling down now, noble Agent Burke? Have you begun to see what happens when you treat a slave like something more than it is?" Adler smiled. "You gave it too much leash, and now it has come back to bite you. No one is safe now, Agent Burke. Not you, and not anyone connected to you—not even your beautiful wife."

Peter gripped the edge of the desk to keep himself from grabbing the computer and hurling it across the room, tears stinging his eyes. How dare this bastard threaten his wife?! His precious El! How could Neal do this to him, after all Peter had done? How, how, how?!

Peter slammed a fist down on his desk hard enough to make his coffee mug rattle. No!

"But," Adler continued, holding up a finger, "because I am a generous man, I am going to give you a chance to rectify this. This is not the first time Neal has turned on its master, and it is a behavior that needs to be stopped. This account was set up to protect my pet from masters who put its life in danger, not a kind-hearted sap with liberationist values who overestimates what his slave is worth."

"Fuck you, Adler," Peter growled. He was not a kind-hearted liberationist sap, and when he found Neal he was damn well going to prove it! How, how, how could Neal have done this?

"Once again, my slave has been disrespectful, manipulating my kindnesses to its own advantage instead of honoring its master's will. You have twenty-four hours to remind it of what it is and where it belongs. Get a video of it begging forgiveness, and the target is off your back, and the backs of those you love. If that video is not sent to the account at Credit Suisse within twenty-four hours, then I will give my slave what I promised it—your dead body. Have a wonderful day, Agent Burke."

The screen blinked off, and Peter let out a furious yell, slamming his hand angrily down on the desk. How the hell could Caffrey do this? And what kind of sucker had he been, believing that the conniving bastard would ever speak the truth? Believing all his crap?!

Screw papers and promises. All bets were officially off.

o o o

Neal sniffled as the hat stealer shoved into him again, grunting in time to his thrusting hips. Neal's pants and boxer-briefs were on the ground around his ankles, his face and chest up against the concrete wall. The two Bobs and Lula sat silently on the floor, staring pointedly at the ground, while Root Beer watched with an unreadable expression. No one enjoyed seeing one of their own getting fucked by a stranger without his master's permission, but they all knew better than to try and leave while it was going on and bring attention to themselves.  
Lula looked especially upset, and Neal wished he could assure her that this was revenge, not a random fuck fest where she might very well end up as the dessert. The hat stealer had ordered him to shut up, though, and besides, he doubted he could speak sensically, even if he wanted to. Being basically raped by men he hated was not his favorite pass-time, and this fucking was particularly harsh. There was blood trickling down his thighs to prove it.

Neal's hat was crumpled on the ground, where the hat stealer had stomped it into collapse, and he tried his best to focus on tracing its deformed shape rather than thinking about what was happening to his body.

In and out, in and out, slap, slap, slap, grunt, grunt, grunt… It seemed like it had been going on forever. The pain was intense, and it reminded Neal so, *so* much of prison. It was like he was back in the communal showers, mounted from behind by some bully with body odor and bad teeth.

Okay, the hat stealer didn't actually stink and his teeth were fine, but that didn't make the experience any better. Neal really thought he'd escaped this when Peter had agreed to take him home.

What a fool he'd been.

Neal wondered idly what Peter would do when he heard about this. Surely he wouldn't be angry, would he? He'd know that this was not what Neal had wanted, right?

Right?

Neal swallowed hard as the hat stealer finally came to a halt, sort of collapsing atop of Neal, panting. The smell of sweat and sex made Neal want to puke.

"Well, now, wasn't that nice?" the hat stealer mumbled, nuzzling Neal's neck, and it took everything Neal had in him not to shove the man away. After running away last night, Neal was on thin ice. He couldn't attack a free man now, no matter how good it might feel.

"You're a nice piece of ass."

"I'm a fuckling," Neal said in a dull voice, doing his best to choke down his humiliation at the words. He shouldn't feel like this. As a slave, he had no right to feel like this. He was a fuckling—it was a fact. No matter what he did in life, there were two things he would always be: a fuckling and a slave. "This is what I'm for."

The words were painfully true. This *was* what Neal was for, and not just the sex part. No, any slave could be used for sex, and they often were. But fucklings were bred to be fucked in dark rooms and alleyways and prison cells and cheap motels. They were the lowest of the low when it came to slaves, with lives so degrading that other slaves actually looked down on them. And yet they were supposed to feel nothing, or even be pleased by this life. How was it possible? Neal really wished he knew. It would make his life a whole lot easier.

Neal used his shoulder to wipe the tears off his face as the hat stealer finally pulled out completely, zipping up his pants. Neal didn't move, just stayed pressed up against the wall, naked from the waist down, as the son of a bitch re-dressed himself.

A hand grabbed his arm, pulling him away from the wall only to turn him around and slam him against it again, this time facing the jerk.

"Here," the hat stealer said as he released him, reaching down and picking Neal's crumpled hat off the floor. He worked at it until it actually resembled a hat again, then held up the condom he'd used, laughing as he dropped it in and rolled it around, smearing semen inside. Then he set the hat on Neal's head with a cruel smile.

"I want you to wear this, slave,” he said harshly. "Every day, I want to see you wearing it. Because every day you don't wear it, this happens again. Do you understand me?" He flashed his teeth when Neal remained silent. "Well, do you?!"

Neal gave a slow nod. "Yes, sir," he said in a soft voice.

"Good," the hat stealer snapped back. "Oh, and don't bother running to your master, bitch. I talked to Human Resources and they agreed he had no right to fire me, or even write me up. You're a slave. I'm a man. You were the one out of line, not me—and I think you know that, don't you? I think you knew it yesterday, when all this went down, but you just chose not to say anything, didn't you?"

Neal dropped his eyes. "Yes, sir," he whispered. What else could he say? It was the truth. Peter had been out of his head. This guy was a man. Neal was a *slave.* It was like firing someone for knocking over a desk chair.

The hat stealer grinned broadly, letting out a hearty laugh. "I'm glad we understand each other. Now you have a nice day, boy. Hope there's plenty of work for you in the stacks—I don't think you're in any shape to sit down."

He slipped out of the room, door slamming behind him, and Neal wrapped his arms around himself as he slid down the wall, not caring that the rough concrete was scraping his bare ass. More tears ran down his cheeks as his hat slipped over his eyes, the scent of sex filling his senses. He licked his lips, letting out a choked sob as he wondered if the salty bitterness he tasted was tears or cum.

"Lunch break's over," Bob One said quietly.

"See you tomorrow," Lula replied.

Neal took a deep breath and pushed his hat up out of his eyes in time to see the two Bobs walking out the door. He sniffed then wiped his face on his sleeve.

All he really wanted to do was curl up in a little ball and die, but that wasn't an option, not if he wanted to solve this case and stay out of prison. It was stand up and pull himself together or go back to doing this twenty times a day, seven days a week for the rest of his life.

"I better get cleaned up," he said quietly, pointedly not looking Lula and Root Beer's direction as he used his pocket square to mop blood off his thighs. "I gotta get back to work."

o o o

Peter took another deep breath through the nose, letting it out slowly through his mouth. Who would have thought that the meditative breathing exercises he'd learned when El had talked him into couple's yoga classes would come in so handy? He was pretty sure they were only thing keeping him from sweeping this entire building, pounding on his chest like a goddamn gorilla, until he found Neal Caffrey.

Just the thought of how badly Caffrey betrayed him brought tears to his eyes. Had the bastard realized that his little assassination attempt would leak over to El? Peter wasn't sure, but he knew this: Neal had been brazen enough to put a proverbial target on Peter's back even after all the things he'd done for him, from getting him out of prison to ignoring his Seize and Destroy order. With morals like that, who knew what the slave was capable of?

Peter had been such a fool, believing that pretty face. Conned to the core.

There. The door to the Vice Collar division opened and Neal sauntered through like he didn't have a care in the world. Peter stood abruptly, then paused to take another deep breath. He needed to keep this under control, not let anything get out of hand. This conversation could not go down in the middle of the FBI building, that was for sure. He needed to get Neal back to the house, where he wouldn't be able to escape, before confronting him about his treachery.

Peter took one more deep breath and made for the floor, marching down the short stairwell with his eyes locked on Caffrey.

Neal actually flashed him a smile, the conniving son of a bitch, and Peter reached out and grabbed him by the arm, pulling the slave violently toward him.

"Whoa!" Neal said, waving a hand around to keep himself from toppling over. "What are you—"

"Shut up, Caffrey," Peter snapped, eyes flashing as he switched his grip from Neal's arm to the back of his jacket, practically dragging him toward the door. "We're leaving. Now."

Neal let out a rather satisfying yelp as Peter dragged him through the doors and shoved him into the elevator hard enough that he slammed against the far wall.

"Master, what's—"

"I said, shut up!" Peter growled as a frightened look bloomed on Neal's face. Good. Peter wanted him to look scared. He deserved to be scared. Hell, with the feelings Peter was having right now, imagining his wife being gunned down in their kitchen, Caffrey had a *reason* to be scared.

Damn the bastard, lying to him all this time!

"Please, Master, tell me what—" That was the last straw.

Peter slapped Neal's face as hard as he could. "I tell you to shut up, I expect you to shut up! You call me 'master,' so act like my damn slave and do what you're told!"

The elevator binged and Neal whimpered as Peter grabbed him by the back of the jacket again and began to drag him toward the main doors.

"I know what you did, and you are in big trouble, Caffrey," he said as he yanked open the door to the Taurus and grabbed Neal by the hair, forcing him to bend over then shoving him into the car. "And you're not getting out of it this time."

o o o

Neal leaned up against the car door, arms wrapped around himself as he stared fearfully at his furious master.

Of all the time he'd spent in prison thinking about Peter, imagining what kind of man he was like, it had never been like this. The Peter he'd imagined had been cool, calm, and in control, his every move pre-planned and carefully set into action to prove his strength and power. This Peter was a madman, hands gipping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles were turning white, sweat running off his brow.

Neal's head was feeling light, and the logical part of him knew he was hyperventilating, but he couldn't seem to steady his quick, gasping breaths. Logic went out the window when Master looked like that, and he was in full survival mode.

How could Master have found out, so very soon? It didn't make sense! Neal had made sure he was perfectly clean, and that he walked like normal despite the burning pain in his ass. His only tell was the wrinkling in his hat, but he hadn't dared leave it off, not after what the hat stealer had promised would happen if he did. But surely Master couldn't have known just from that?

Had hat stealer told him? Was that what the whole affair had been about, getting him in trouble with Master? Neal wasn't sure, and at this point it didn't matter. What was important was that Master knew what he'd done, and he was not happy. In fact, he was furious.

What a fool Neal had been to hope that, if it did come out, Master would understand, that he would know it wasn't what Neal had wanted. He knew now that Neal was a fuckling, and fucklings had quite the reputation. Obviously Master thought Neal had sought the hat stealer out and offered himself, totally undermining Master's authority. Unfortunately, Neal had no idea how he could possibly convince him otherwise. Not with the hat stealer's cum in his fedora and blood still trickling out of his asshole.

Neal choked down the urge to sob, knowing that even the slightest sound or movement could attract the attention of Master, which was the last thing he wanted. The good news was that they weren't headed toward SlaveMart, which meant Master was probably not looking for a euthanasia kit. In fact, if Neal had to guess, he'd say they were headed to Master's house.

Of course, Master didn't need a euthanasia kit to kill him, especially considering how angry he was. At this point it wasn't hard to picture Master beating him to death with his fists. It was almost unbelievable how furious Master was. What had happened was bad, but this response seemed insane.

"Why did you do it?" Master asked suddenly, his voice rough.

"I-I don't know, Master," Neal said, not sure how to answer that question. "I didn't want to, I swear, but I had to."

The look Master gave him made him want to melt away into his seat.

"Bullshit. If you hadn't wanted to, then you wouldn't have. But you did, so you wanted to. Didn't you?!"

Another tear ran down Neal's cheek. That didn't make much sense to him, but it must make sense because Master had said it, and what Master said was true. If he didn't get it, then that was only because he was a slave and slaves were inherently stupid.

"DIDN'T YOU?" Master shouted, and Neal flinched.

"Y-yes, Master," he agreed, even though he didn't really think it was true. But thinking it wasn't true meant correcting Master, and Master was always right. Slaves who corrected Master were Bad. Neal didn't want to be Bad, not to the only master he'd ever had who'd ever even pretended that Neal was more than something to be thrown away on a whim, the only master who'd ever promised Neal life. "I-I-I wanted it." The words were almost physically painful to say, and more tears ran down his cheeks.

Neal was tossed forward into the dashboard as Master suddenly slammed on the brakes, then what seemed like an instant later, he was being dragged out of the car and down the sidewalk toward Master's house. He dropped to his knees as Master fumbled with the keys, his whole body shaking as he listened to the man curse under his breath.

A moment later he was literally picked up and thrown into the living room, sending him rolling across the floor.

Master slammed the door behind him and flipped on the lights, staring down angrily at Neal. That was when Neal saw it. He choked, all the blood rushing out of his face as he stared in disbelief at the item sitting ominously behind Master.

In the middle of the living room, right in front of the bookshelf, was a large black slave cage. The on coming panic attack Neal felt rising up couldn't be attributed to that, however. No, that honor could only go to the way it was set up: in full out, extreme bondage punishment mode.

Neal let out a whimper as he stared at the small metal box formed out of steel within the larger cage, memories of screaming muscles and never ending darkness flooding his mind. It was like he could already feel the ache of an anal piece shoved up inside him and the dryness of his mouth as he did his best to breathe around a gag piece that filled his mouth *and* covered his nose—also known as hell on earth.

God bless Kennel Corp, bringing complete and utter sadism to suburbanites everywhere.


	14. ...Where Credit's Due

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter does bad things, Neal begs on camera, and El is the only one with any sense at all.

Neal let out a whimper as he cowered on the floor in front of Peter, looking like a frightened child. A rush of guilt washed over Peter, making him feel a little sick to his stomach. He quickly shoved it away, squaring his shoulders and doing his best to ignore the illness rising in his gut. He had *nothing* to feel guilty about. Caffrey had been manipulating him from the start, luring him into his game with his pretty face and his pitiable stories. Lie after lie after lie to keep Peter off his guard, feeling sorry for him.

Had any of it been real, any at all? Had the things that happened between them meant anything at all? Had this been one big ruse from the start to get Caffrey out of jail and take revenge on the man who'd put him there?

All Peter knew for sure was that because of this slave, both he and his wife's lives were in danger. He was through playing Mr. Nice Guy. Caffrey had pissed in his own bed when he'd given Peter that account information. Hell, if Peter had acted on his first impulse not to pry, he never would have gotten that video and there could be a hit out on him right now. Playing Mr. Nice Guy could have gotten him killed. More importantly, it could have gotten *El* killed.

"I cannot believe you betrayed me like this," Peter said in a cold voice.

Neal didn't respond, just wrapped his arms around himself as he stared up at Peter with huge blue eyes.

"I should have known better than to trust a con-man like you," Peter continued, doing his best to ignore the way Neal's big, terrified eyes made him want to wave away all indiscretions and wrap the slave up in a big bear hug. That was probably the bastard's plan. Damn him and his puppy dog eyes. "I opened my home to you, treated you like a partner, and this is what I get. It's despicable!"

And it was! Completely and utterly despicable! There was no excuse this time. None. Peter understood that Neal had been afraid. He understood that Neal had felt powerless and confused and distraught. And if he'd tried to punch Peter in the face or run off into the night again or even found a way to ditch his collar and slipped the leash completely, Peter might have understood. But Neal had drawn a line in the sand when he'd brought Peter, and especially Peter's family into this. Caffrey was used to getting away with whatever he wanted, but this time it wasn't happening.

The question now was what to do with him.

Peter knew what he *wanted* to do with him right that second. He wanted to kick the living crap out of the little back stabber, but furious or no, knocking around a man who was already down was not Peter's style. He would not let Neal's actions destroy his own morals.

On the other hand, Peter had sworn to Neal that he would never send him back to that prison, and being a man of his word was one of those morals, one he did his best to hold himself to. But did a promise made under the umbrella of a lie mean anything at all? For all Peter knew, Neal's whole story about being a prison slave was a lie, too! Okay, the marks on Neal's body were pretty damning, but at this point Peter wouldn't put anything past the conman.

A small part of Peter thought that maybe he needed to step back and think this over, that his emotions were overwhelming him and making it difficult for him to see things clearly. It was so difficult, though, especially when it came to Neal! 

After all, he knew what kind of person Neal was. You didn't get the title of 'felon' for being an upstanding guy. Yet he also knew, deep down, that Neal wasn't a *bad* person, not the kind of person who truly hurt people. Or so he'd thought. Now he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything at all. God, he just didn't know what to do! Where the hell was El? He needed her input on this!  
The thought made him pause, fear rising up in his gut. Just where *was* El? Adler had said Peter had twenty-four hours, but that bastard was a conman, too! Was it possible he'd already gotten to El? Was his wife out there somewhere, hurt and dying? Oh, God, no…

Screw seeing clearly. Peter could work on wiping off his metaphorical glasses once he knew his wife was safe!

"I should have treated you like the slave you are from the start," Peter said, the words coming out savage. "In a way, this is my fault, because if I'd done that, this would never have happened. If I hadn't put my trust in you, we wouldn't be in this situation now." His voice caught. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you yet, Caffrey, but let's make one thing clear. From now on, we're master and slave—and that's all. Nothing else. We are sure as hell not friends. Do you understand me?"

Neal nodded rapidly. "Y-yes, Master. We're master and slave. Nothing else."

"Good," Peter said through gritted teeth, pulling his phone out of his pocket and bringing up the camera. Maybe the FBI didn't negotiate with terrorists, but Peter couldn't afford to deny that bastard Adler what he wanted. "First thing you're going to do is apologize. On camera."

A look of confusion passed over Neal's face, like that wasn't what he'd been expecting, but then he began nodding eagerly again. "Of course, Master! Of course, I'll apologize."

"And you make it damn clear that this is the last time you will *ever* disobey me, Caffrey, do you understand?"

"Yes, Master," Neal said, sounding breathless. "I understand, Master."

"Good," Peter said, hitting the record button. "Now go!"

Neal crawled forward a few feet and grabbed his hat off his head, wrinkling it into a ball in his hands. "I'm so sorry, Master, I swear that I'm sorry for what I did." He made a choked sound. "I swear, I will never disobey you again. I am so sorry for betraying you, and I swear on my life that it will never, ever, ever happen again." Tears began to run down his cheeks. "I swear!"

"Tell him you know you're my slave," Peter said, doing his best to recall exactly what Adler had insisted be in this little video. "Tell him!"

"I… I'm your slave? I'm your slave!" Neal dropped downward, pressing his face into the floor. "I'm your slave, Master. I'm only your slave! That's all I am… Please… Please forgive me." He let out a loud sob.

Peter swallowed hard, trying his best to ignore the sick feeling rising in his gut as he stared down at Neal's crying, shaking form. Never in a million years had he ever imagined he would make someone look like that—certainly not smooth, suave, intelligent Neal Caffrey, of all people! That wasn't the kind of man he was. It wasn't right, making someone—even a slave—look like that. But what choice did he have? Adler had said to make Neal 'beg for forgiveness.' Hopefully this counted, because Peter wasn't sure his conscience would let him take it much further. Not that Neal needed to know that.

"Please, Master," Neal moaned as he began to yank at his tie, pulling it off and dropping it onto the ground. Peter watched in confusion as his jacket went next, followed by his shirt, buttons popping off as he yanked it apart and flung it off. Finally he kicked off his pants, leaving his body on display, his underpants the only thing keeping him decent.

"See? I'm just a slave…" Neal began to run his hands along the still healing bruises covering his chest, and Peter grimaced a little as what Neal was doing finally clicked. He was showing Peter his wounds. "Baton. Boot. Fist. Pipe. I'm just a slave… Please don't put me in the box. Please don't put me in the box."

The box? Peter hit the button to end the recording, stuffing the phone back into his pocket. Hopefully that was enough for Adler, that piece of scum. If not, he'd get more later. He followed Neal's gaze, eyebrows shooting up in surprise as he turned around.

On the floor behind him was the cage El had said she'd purchased for Neal. The actual cage itself seemed pretty small for someone Neal's size, but what really surprised Peter was what looked to be some sort of secondary cage within it, only this one was formed out of solid slabs of steel, like a… like a box.

Neal was begging not to go in the box.

Peter glanced back over at Neal, a fresh rush of anger coming over him as he stared at the man, wiping his eyes and whimpering like some pitiful little baby. It was so unlike Neal Caffrey, that Peter couldn't help but wonder, was any of it real? Or was Neal just trying to trick Peter into feeling sorry for him so he wouldn't get punished for his actions? 

Peter didn't know anymore. Neal was a better conman than even he had realized, manipulating Peter into believing that his intentions were good when, all along, the slave had been planning to take Peter down.

Neal didn't want to go into "the box"? Well, Peter didn't want a fucking hit put out on the woman he loved! Maybe it was time for slick Mr. Caffrey to see what it felt like to not get what he wanted. Besides, it was just a stupid cage. It wasn't like it would really hurt him or anything.

o o o

Neal's breath came in short gasps as he backed himself into the cage, grimacing as the metal piece scraped his spine. Peter hadn't removed the gag piece, so the already small opening had been cut down even more since the side couldn't slide out completely with the gag in place.

The really hard part, however, was keeping himself from simply bolting out of the house and running like the wind, shock collar be damned. His ass hurt so, so bad, all the tears he'd gotten in prison that had just started to heal reopened by the hat stealer, and he was short of breath from his crying. The idea of being trapped in that tiny little box of darkness for who knew how long made him physically ill. This was not the time to puke, however, not unless he wanted to smell it for the next few hours.

Neal did wish he could run and take a piss, because he had a feeling that he'd be in there for awhile. Sitting in your own urine was no joy, though it was definitely better than basking in your own shit. Somehow he didn't think Master was going to be granting him the luxury of a bathroom break, though. The man still looked ready to kill, and the box was better than that, if not by far.

It wouldn't have been so bad if it was only the box itself, but Neal knew Kennel Corp cages intimately, and he knew what kind of detachable horrors they came up with. He guessed he should count himself lucky that this one was outfitted with the base model gag and anal piece instead of some of the more creative attachments available for purchase.

He'd been in one once where the anal piece was sharp on the end and if you didn't hold your body perfectly still at just the right angle, it would stab you internally. Of course, that wasn't nearly as bad as the ideas he'd he'd seen during the three weeks he'd spent playing Geoffrey Dylanworth, inventor and newest member of Kennel Corp's Punitive Cage Design Team. Neal hoped to God that the automatic water-boarding attachment never made it past test faze, and that the diarrhea inducing dildo never made it off the damn page. 

Seriously, that Louis Baker had a nasty mind. Neal himself had been the one to design the patented Spit Shock, a gag that gave out a small electric shock when it came in contact with moisture, meaning that if your mouth wasn't totally dry, you were in pain. He damn well never wanted to feel that one.

Neal took a steadying breath as he felt the anal piece brushing him, using his hands, which were trapped behind his back, to inch down his underwear enough that the piece could get in. He really should have done this before he'd doubled over to fit into the punishment box, but the look in Master's eyes had made all common sense fly out the window.

"Hurry up, Caffrey," came Master's angry voice, and Neal did his best to double time his efforts, grimacing as the piece rammed into him. The position the box forced him into meant he had to literally wiggle his way in, which made the anal piece feel like a fucking shank as it went up his butt.

The door went down suddenly, so close to Neal's head that the gag slammed him in the face. For a moment he considered tilting his head to the side to avoid the gag, then quickly vetoed the idea. Master could open the top hatch of the cage to look at him any time, and if he got caught slacking, he might have to stay in here even longer.

There was hardly any room to maneuver in the cage, which made getting the gag on difficult. It slid in through a spring-mechanized sliding section from the outside, which is how both it and the anal piece were supposed to be inserted, but apparently Master expected him to be able to get it in his mouth despite the fact that the box was so small he was literally doubled over, feet forced top-down against the ground, arms caught behind him. His neck was at a ninety degree angle so his mouth would be facing the gag, not a very comfortable position, and not one very easy to maneuver without pulling a muscle in his neck.

Neal twisted his head around painfully until he finally managed to get the gag in his mouth, the upper part efficiently covering his nose and limiting his air supply. He would have to focus carefully on breathing, because he didn't dare pass out.

One of the best known flaws of the Kennel Corp design was the air restriction device. Well, it was only a flaw if you cared whether or not you accidentally killed your slave or not, and not enough people cared for them to bother redesigning it. 

There were many recorded incidents of slaves passing out in the cages from dehydration or other causes, then asphyxiating to death. Kennel Corp was known for harsh punishments, however, and real, honest to God fear of death by asphyxiation was certainly punitive, so why *should* they change the design? Or so was the response young Mr. Dylanworth had received when he'd suggested they work on making it a little safer.

Now that it was shut, the cage was truly dark, no light at all for Neal's eyes to adjust to, and the thick steel muted most outside noises. It now was time to make a decision. He could either start counting and keep track of his time in here, or he could just try his best to relax and accept that he would be free when Master decided he'd been punished enough. Both had their ups and downs—if you didn't count then you could easily start to believe you'd been there for weeks, but if you did count, the fact that what felt like hours was actually only a few minutes could drive you insane.

At least he was in the living room, and not hidden away somewhere. When he was thirteen, Neal had been put in a punishment cage in a closet. His master had forgotten about him and he'd spent six days in the box, naked except for his own shit and piss. He'd almost died. In fact, he'd *begged* to die, but nobody could hear his cries through thick steel in that out of the way cupboard. Hopefully the fact that they couldn't really watch TV without looking at him would keep that from happening here.

Neal took a careful breath and began to count.

o o o

"Okay, thanks, Geraldo, I really appreciate it. I can't believe they canceled on me! You are a life saver."

"No problem, Elizabeth," the caterer replied in his thick Spanish accent. "I'll see you on Saturday."

El dropped her phone into her purse, about to pull out her keys, then frowned as she noted the lights on in the living room. She was certain she'd turned those off. Was Peter home early?

She reached out, turning the handle. Apparently he was, and if Peter was home, Neal certainly was as well. That could be sticky, considering that SlaveMart had dropped off his new cage only moments before she'd had to rush off in response to an emergency call from one of her best clients. El had wanted to present it in a slow, gentle way, making it very, very clear that the cage was there for when Neal wanted it, not when they decided to put him in.

Hopefully her hubby had been sensitive enough to attempt to put Neal at ease, at least enough to keep the poor boy from jumping to some terrible conclusion, something that would be pretty easy to do considering the cage had arrived completely assembled, punishment cage included.

El shut the door behind her, glancing around for said husband. "Peter?" she called out, setting her purse down on the couch. "You home, hun?"

There was a loud clatter in the kitchen and Peter appeared in the doorway, an intense look of relief on his face. "Oh thank God, you're okay!" he said, rushing forward and wrapping her in his arm, pressing his face down into her hair. "I've been calling you, and I didn't get an answer!"

"I'm sorry, honey, I had a caterer cancel at the last minute and I've been on the phone for the last three hours looking for a replacement." She pushed him back a little, frowning. "What's wrong, honey? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm just glad you're okay," Peter whispered, and were those tears in his eyes?

"Peter, sweetie, what's going on? What happened." She glanced around worriedly. "And where's Neal?"

Almost instantly, Peter's face went from relieved to a strange cross of furious and guilty. "He's just a slave," he said gruffly, the upset look in his eyes not matching the words, "let him rot."

Elizabeth's mouth dropped open. "What? Peter, what are you talking about?" She paused, getting a sinking feeling that all was not right in the world. "Did Neal run away again?"

Peter laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "I wish it was that simple." He squeezed El to his chest again, almost cutting off her air. "He tried to kill me, El. And you." He raised a hand to her face, and she realized they were shaking. "I was so afraid… When I couldn't get ahold of you…" A tear spilled out of Peter's eye, and he wiped it furiously on his sleeve.

"He… he what?! Peter, what are you talking about? I don't understand! What happened?"

"What am I going to do with him, El?" Peter asked morosely. "I just don't know! Send him back to prison? I promised I wouldn't, but talk about the ultimate betrayal! Still, the idea of *anyone* going through that makes me feel sick…" He shook his head. "Adler was right. I am a kind-hearted sap."

Adler? Who the hell was Adler? 

"Hold on," El said, taking a step back and holding up a hand. "I'm pretty sure I would recall it if Neal had tried to kill me, Peter. Tell me what happened, from the beginning."

Peter rubbed his forehead tiredly, a pained look coming over his face. "He betrayed us, hon. After all we did, he set us up! He set *me* up."

El's brow furrowed in confusion. "Peter, I still have no idea what you're talking about."

"You remember the account number Neal put on his sheet under the money section?" Peter asked, and El bit her lip, searching her memory. So much had happened last night that it was all kind of a blur, but she did remember something about a bank account.

"Yeah, I think so," El said slowly. "Why?"

"Well, I called the bank today—"

"Hold on," El cut in, shocked. "You were going to take his money?"

"No I wasn't going to take his money," Peter snapped, looking annoyed. "You know me better than that! I just wanted to know if it was real."

"Okay… So was it?"

"Oh yes," Peter said, "the money was real. But that wasn’t the only thing in the account. There was also a message."

A message? Why would there be a message in a bank account? "From who?"

"From Vincent Adler," Peter replied.

El's eyes widened. "Of Adler Industries?"

"The one and only," Peter said, shaking his head like he couldn't believe it, either. "Apparently he's the one who set up this little trust fund for Neal—from what I could discern, Neal conned his way into being Adler's slave, only Adler knew about the con all along and was waiting to trap him."

"Okay," El said slowly. "And what does this have to do with Neal, um," she cleared her throat uncomfortably, "trying to kill us?"

"It seems that a trust fund isn't all the account was," Peter replied, his hands balling into fists. "See, the message wasn't for Neal. It was for me, El. Specifically for me! Apparently Adler's been keeping tabs on Neal and sent the message to the bank after I took him under my wing. Adler and Neal had a deal—if Neal's life was ever in danger from a master, he could give the account info to him and, when the master accessed the account, Adler would get a head's up from the bank and put a hit out on the guy. 

“Only, Neal decided to use it for his own purposes, and Adler didn't like it. Claims he's sick of Neal's manipulations. So he left the message for me, saying that either I could get my slave under control and send him a video of Neal begging for forgiveness, or he'd find a way to kill us both. Neal set us up to be killed!"

El blinked, shaking her head slowly as she tried to process the information. When had their lives turned into a spy movie, for heaven's sake?! "Okay… Tell me if I've got this right. So, based on a a message from one of the most well known white collar criminals in the world, you've decided that Neal gave you the account info for the sole purpose of getting you killed."

"Exactly," Peter said, apparently missing the flaw in that logic completely.

"And you just believed him?" El prompted. Was her husband out of his mind? What had happened to Peter Burke, number one agent for the FBI? A kindergartner could smell that this was a setup!

"I saw the video, El!" Peter snapped. "Of the day Adler gave Neal the account! He told him flat out to use the account like a sword, and Neal said he would!"

"And did you talk to Neal about it?" El questioned, growing more unhappy with this situation by the second.

"I told him I knew what he did!" Peter said, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. Good. If he was defensive, then deep down he knew that something about this wasn't right.

"And what did he say?" El responded.

"He didn't deny it!" Peter's voice cracked. "Oh, and he was more than sorry, of course. They're always sorry when they get caught." He turned his head away as his face twisted up in pain. "I trusted him, El. I trusted him, I tried to help him, and this is what he gave me in return!"

El took a deep breath. "I think the three of us need to have another chat, okay? Is Neal upstairs? Why don't you bring him down and we'll talk."

"He's not upstairs," Peter said dully.

"Well, where is he?" El asked slowly, a sick feeling rising up in her gut as a really horrible picture began to form in her mind.

Peter didn't respond, he just shifted his gaze across the room, locking eyes on the cage.

Oh, God no.

"Please, *please* tell me you didn't put him in the punishment cage, Peter," El said urgently, grabbing it her husband's shirt.

"Is that what it's called?" Peter asked morosely. "He just called it 'the box.'" He shook his head, looking like he didn't know whether he wanted to throw something or cry. "I say leave him in there for awhile. Let him think about what happens to people who betray their friends! I mean… slaves who betray their masters. Whatever."

"Please, please, please tell me you removed the attachments before putting him in there!" El said, rushing over toward the cage and dropping down on her knees next to it, sticking her hands through the bars and running them along the metal of the smaller cage within.

Peter's brow furrowed in confusion as he settled down on the floor next to her. "The what?"

El looked up at him with horrified eyes. "Oh my God, Peter, we have to get him out right now!"

"But El, he—"

"I don't care what he did!" she shouted, going into panic mode. "He cannot stay in there another second!"

"Oh come on, it can't be that bad—"

"You weren't there," El said, fighting back the tears in her eyes. "You weren't standing in the aisle with me when that little girl explained what this thing is for! Peter, this isn't just a box, okay? This is a slave's worst nightmare!"

Peter's face grew red. "Why the hell are you siding with him, El? He set us up! He's been playing us this whole time!"

"Maybe," El shot back, "or maybe this Adler guy is playing you! Did you ever think of that, or were you too busy letting your emotions get the best of you? Either way, we're not leaving him in this cage! I don't have time to explain, but you're about to figure it out, honey, and I feel really, really sorry for you. Though not nearly as sorry as I feel for poor Neal! Seriously, though, Peter! You're one of the top agents of the Vice Collar division! Since when do you act without hard evidence?!"

"I'd say a confession is pretty damning evidence!" Peter replied, looking offended.

"You said he didn't deny it. Those were the words you used, Peter," El said, shaking her head. "If he'd confessed, you'd have said he confessed, not that he didn't deny it."

Peter's brow furrowed a little. "Same thing."

El let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, please. You damn well know that it's not. I really don't know what's wrong with you lately. It's like ever since Neal walked into our lives, you're completely incapable of normal thought! I don't know what it is about Neal that's turned you into an idiot, but you can use those big, dumb hands to help me get him out of this box, okay?"

"Dammit, El!" Peter shouted, dropping his head into his hands. "I know, okay? I know that I'm losing my goddamn mind, but I don't know what to do about it! It's like when he's around, I can't see straight. Like right is left and left is right. He's mouthing off, then he's crying on the floor. He's a confident conman, then he's a serious slave. I'm punishing him, then I'm kissing him. I just don't know what to do!"

o o o

Silence fell over the room as Elizabeth stared at him with huge eyes, a look of disbelief on her face. "K-kissing him? You… you were kissing him?"

Peter's eyes grew wide. He had *not* meant to say that out loud. Oh, God, what had he done?! "No, no, no of course not!" He paused, grimacing. He couldn't lie to her, not like this. "I mean, well, yes. But it was just once, and I really don't know why! Just a peck. Hardly a kiss at all. A ghost of a kiss. Like the French do! I mean, not like a French kiss, but the way French people kiss strangers on the street and all that. Not a—"

"I get it," El cut in, her voice clipped. "I get it. Please, stop there before you make it worse." She paused, then gave a small huff of laughter, her eyes going out of focus like she was seeing something Peter couldn't. "I… I didn't see that coming, but… but maybe I should have. I mean, I've always known you have a crush on him. You dedicated an entire room of our house to him. But I didn't see… Wow. Yeah. Strangely, that actually clears some things up." Her eyes cleared up and she returned her gaze to Peter, an unreadable look on her face.

"I-I don't understand," Peter said, hoping that what she suddenly "saw" wasn't two lawyers and a stack of divorce papers.

El shook her head, a strange look on her face. "That's why you've been acting like a fool. You… You're in love with him, and you don't want to believe it."

"What? No, I'm not!" Peter protested, his face hot. Was El totally out of her mind?! He was not in love with Neal Caffrey! Sure, Neal was dashing; and sure, Neal was smart; and sure, Neal was kind of hot, but that did *not* mean that he was in love with him! You cared about what people you loved thought, you protected them and sheltered them and did your very best to show them they mattered; you worried when they were away and you were happy when they were around. Neal Caffrey did *not* meet the definition of someone he loved. …Right?

"And since you don't want to believe it," El continued slowly, obviously thinking aloud, "you're subconsciously pushing him away and trying to keep him close at the same time, looking to distance yourself enough that you don't give into your feelings and lose me without having to give him up completely. And since you love him, when you thought he'd betrayed you, it broke your heart."

Okay, yeah, it sort of had broken his heart, but that didn't mean he was in *love* with his slave or anything! Friends could break your heart! Couldn't they? Sure they could! Right?

Peter swallowed hard, choking down the lump growing in his throat.

'I brought you here to warn you not to fall in love. But obviously there was no point.' Haversham's words seemed to echo in Peter's mind and his stomach flip flopped.

"El, I would *never* choose him over you," Peter said passionately, reaching out to her and, surprisingly, she didn't push him away.

"I… I know that, Peter," she said, though she didn't sound like she was entirely sure. "But the thing is, we've got to at least address this, or the situation with Neal is just going to get worse and worse."

"I don't think it can get any worse than it is now, El," Peter said, the words yanking him back to reality. "He just tried to kill us!" A stab of pain ran through him. "I can't believe he would do that."

"Then don't," El said simply, shaking off her shell-shocked look. "Peter, stop thinking with your heart and start thinking with your head, like a good agent would! Everything you know about this so-called attempt at murder—a pretty sad attempt considering he could just wait until we're asleep and shoot you with your own gun—you learned from a video message sent to you by one of the best con men in the world. Did you ever stop to think that maybe Adler is trying to mess with you? That maybe he finds it amusing that he can control Vice Collar's best agent?"

Peter swallowed hard. "But when I told Neal that I knew, he didn't deny it…"

"But he didn't confirm it, either," El reminded him. She leaned forward, taking his hands. "Peter," she said in a low, calming voice. "Think about it. Were you angry when you asked him? Is it possible he was just afraid to say yes or no?"

Peter shifted uncomfortably, making a point to avoid looking her in the eyes. "I… I suppose that's possible." In fact, at this point, it seemed kind of likely. Sort of like just taking Adler's word was starting to seem pretty stupid. What was wrong with him? Seriously, what was wrong with him?

"You were hurt," Elizabeth said softly, as if she could read his mind. "You love him, you expressed it the best way you could, then you found out he'd betrayed you and put the woman you also love at risk." She held up a hand. "And maybe he did. I'm not going to say that it isn't possible. But in some ways, Neal speaks a different language than we do, and we're playing catch up on both sides of this relationship. So maybe what we need to do is back up, take a deep breath, and talk this out until there are no more maybes, no more questions. Until we know for sure, one hundred percent. Then we can decide what to do."

"Okay," Peter said softly, reaching out to wrap his arms around her. She didn't resist, thank God, and he buried his face in her hair. They were going to be okay. He would make *sure* they would be okay. "I don't know what I'd do without you, El," he said, his voice cracking as he imagined a life without this wonderful woman.

"Fall off a cliff, probably," she responded softly, making him chuckle.

"You know that no matter what I feel about Neal, you're the person I love more than anything, right?" Peter said earnestly.

"I know that, hun," she replied, her voice much more sure now than it had been a few minutes before. She gave him a squeeze. "I definitely know that. Now let's get Neal out of that horrible cage."


	15. Poetry in Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter realizes he has a torture device by his sofa, Neal lies about the hat stealer, El finds a used condom in a hat, and Master Vincent's video makes Neal feel like a Very Bad Slave.

Fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, one hour, twelve minutes. Or was it thirteen? Neal was starting to drift, and his count was suffering. It was time to wake up and smell the roses: He wasn't getting out of this box anytime soon, so he might as well accept his fate, settle down, and stop counting every passing second.

Neal's body was already starting to ache, especially his neck, held at such an extreme angle. His full bladder was a steady annoyance that he knew from experience would soon turn to pain, and his legs and arms had fallen asleep.

The day had started off so well, with his discovery of Hagen's mark on the tracker. He hadn't even gotten the chance to tell Peter about that. His master had been out of the office on a coffee run when he'd found it and then, the moment he'd returned, Peter had ordered Neal off to the cafeteria. Maybe when he found out he'd go a little easier on Neal? It was wishful thinking, Neal knew that, but it was better than no hope at all.

This afternoon should have pretty much confirmed all of Neal's worries about Peter's intentions, but instead Neal was more confused than ever. The furious man he'd seen today had been completely unexpected, a side of his master that he hadn't even imagined. He wouldn't be able to seduce that man. That man was the sort who punched you in the face for coming on to him, not the sort who rewarded you—but Neal really hadn't thought Peter was like that.

The intelligent part of Neal acknowledged that this was all a bit off, and he had a nagging feeling at the back of his mind that there was something about this situation that he was missing. Being trapped in this box, however, his slave mentality was ruling strong and he didn't even have the energy to try and think about it. He was too busy struggling to live through hell.

What was Benji doing right now?

The thought came out of nowhere, and it made Neal's cheeks go warm, washing him with guilt. What kind of slave was he, sitting in this box thinking about how terrible his situation was, when that poor kid was still back in the prison, getting fucked by prisoners, and he'd never done a single thing wrong at all.

Whether Peter had known about Neal's time as a prison slave or not, it really had been Neal's own actions that landed him in the place. He'd stolen things and conned people and forged documents. He'd run from the police and Interpol and the FBI. He'd lied to his masters and used people for his own purposes, not caring if it hurt them.

Now here he was, after just a single hour in a punishment box, moaning in his mind about how terribly unfair his life was, while Benji served out his entire life in the fuck room for no reason at all. Neal had known all the comforts of a cushy life, not to mention the warmth of Mistress' love. He had experienced great adventures and done astounding things. All Benji had ever known was an aisle at SlaveMart and those prison walls.

The truth was, Neal was lucky. Maybe he wasn't sure why, exactly, he was in this box right now, but he wouldn't have had the chance to be here with any other master. Any other master would have put him down for the way he'd run off last night. 

Peter might think that sentiment was an exaggeration, but, in reality, it was a well known truth. Slaves that ran away from home didn't get to live. In just the past couple of days he'd smart mouthed his master, admitted to having an S&D over his head, gotten in trouble at Peter's work, thrown a temper tantrum, broken a glass on the kitchen floor, and run away from home. All those bad things, and Peter hadn't punished him for any of it.

Yeah, Neal had been stressed out, unsure of what his master wanted and scared that he would have to go back to prison, but that was no excuse for acting like an asshole. A poor kid like Benji would never even get a chance like this, and he deserved it a lot more than Neal did. He was obedient and polite and caring. He actually smiled at the prisoners who came in to use him and always offered Neal friendly words and a drink of his water. He thanked the guards at feeding time and lowered his eyes in respect when the warden walked by.

Neal, on the other hand, had a tendency to sneer at the prisoners like they weren't worth his time—mostly because he didn't feel that they were—and he was rarely polite. He cared mainly about himself, if he was honest. He didn't have much to say to his fellow slaves, who he also didn't really feel were worth his time, and he never shared what little he could call his own with anyone else. He cursed at the guards and had actually spit at the warden a couple of times, consequences be damned. So why was he here, spending a few hours in a punishment cage after committing some of the worst offenses a slave possibly could, while Benji took punishment every day for being a good boy?

It was time for Neal to stop acting like he was entitled to more and better than everybody else and start taking responsibility for the things he did. He had no doubt that little Benji spent his days stressed out and tired and in pain, but he didn't let it control his actions. The reality was, that kid was more grown up than Neal would probably ever be. It was time Neal accepted certain facts so that he could get on with his new life with Peter.

First up, he needed to get it through his head that he was a slave and not a fucking czar. Deep down, Neal had a bad habit of believing he was better than other people. Or maybe not so deep down, considering that he basically said it all the time. He hated it when fellow slaves did it to him because he was a fuckling, but he did it to them all the time, and free men, too. He was not entitled to anything more than any other slave, no matter how big his fucking ego was, and he needed to start remembering that.

Two, he was not the smartest person in the universe. Despite being a slave, Neal was smart, even smarter than some free men, but that didn't make him the Einstein of slaves. Peter was pretty damn smart, too, and as a free man he knew a lot of things about a lot of stuff Neal was clueless about. It was time Neal started respecting that.

Three, Peter didn't owe Neal an explanation for everything that he did. He'd been confused as hell when Peter had, out of nowhere, dragged him from the office in a furious rage, and he'd been trying to figure out what had gone wrong ever since, but it didn't matter. *Why* his master was mad wasn't necessarily something he needed to know. Peter had a right to do what he wanted with Neal, no explanation necessary. That was part of being someone's *possession.*

Finally—and most importantly—he needed to accept that self-centered manipulation was *not* the same thing as service. Neal had been desperate to figure Peter out since he'd first walked out of that prison, constructing plans left and right to try and manipulate his new master into keeping him. Not only had this resulted in several bad situations, it had also left him stressed out and on edge when Peter continued to defy Neal's expectations and, therefore, destroy his plans. Neal needed to stop being a control freak, constantly trying to read his master, and just do the best he could to be an obedient slave.

Yeah, there would be stumbles along the way, like this whole deal with the hat stealer. But Neal would slowly learn from them and, within a few months, he'd be his new master's ideal slave. For instance, he'd learned today that it was better to run from a free man trying to use him without permission than to take the abuse. Obviously the latter choice had really pissed Peter off, so if it happened again in the future, Neal would know to run from the hat stealer and go tell his master. That was how a slave was *supposed* to learn what his master wanted, by trial and error, not by constant evaluation and supposition.

Neal mouthed at his gag, grimacing at the dryness of his mouth. There was nothing like a few hours in the box to clear your head.

o o o

"Here, let me do it," Peter said as El knelt down next to the cage and began to fumble with it. He reached in to slide up the side when El batted his hand away.

"Peter, if you slide it up like that, you're gonna choke him!" El snapped, looking upset.

Choke him? How would opening the door choke him?

"You have to take this out first," El said, reaching through the bars and sliding open a small section of the steel that Peter hadn't noticed. What was that, some kind of peep hole?

Apparently not, because it opened onto more metal. What was El doing?

His wife bit her lip in concentration, glancing down at the instruction booklet she'd balanced in her lap. "Okay, slide the panel back and push to release…" There was a soft pop and a moment later El pulled a weirdly shaped rubber thing with a metal base out of the section, throwing it on the ground with a disgusted look.

"What the hell is that?" Peter demanded, staring at the object like it might bite as he climbed to his feet.

"It's the gag, Peter," El said quietly.

Peter's mouth moved silently. The *gag*? There was a *gag* on the thing? How the *hell* could he have missed that? "I… I… Oh my God…"

El shook her head, looking a little disgusted, not that he could blame her.. "Why did you think the side didn't come all the way up? Hell, I have no idea how Neal even got in with the attachments still on."

Peter stared down at the gag with a horrified look on his face. "I didn't… I didn't know…" His voice cracked on the words, and El sighed, her face grim.

"Hon," she said softly, "I have to warn you. If the gag is upsetting you that much, then you're really not going to like what comes next." She leaned forward, pulling open the sliding spring section again. "Neal, sweetie, we're getting you out of there, okay? Just give me a few minutes to read the directions. I don't want to do this next part wrong and hurt you."

There was no answer and Peter's heart began to thump a little too fast. Was Neal even conscious in there?

"Neal, can you hear me?"

"Yes, Ms. El," came his soft voice. "You… you don't have to take out the other piece. I can get out. If Master wants me out," he added quickly.

"I do, Neal," Peter said, feeling sick to his stomach as he picked up the gag and began to inspect it. Dear God, this wasn't just a gag—it was an asphyxiation device, the kind used by terrorist sects in the Middle East to torture prisoners! This shit was designed to drive soldiers slowly mad by making it so difficult to breathe that they began to think they were dying! Then, once they began to hyperventilate, the excess oxygen gave them a mild high that made them easier to interrogate.

What the *hell* was an American company doing using gags declared by the United Nations as instruments of torture in their goddamn cage designs?

"What's the other piece?" Peter said sharply, looking down at his wife. She couldn't even hold his gaze for more than a moment, her cheeks turning red as she looked away. Peter's stomach turned and he dropped back down on his knees next to her. "What is it, El?" he asked in a serious voice. "You have to tell me."

"It's an anal piece, Peter," she said, tears coming to her eyes. "Sort of a… dildo." She blushed even harder as she said the word.

Peter sat back on his heels, shocked. "Oh my God," he said, swallowing down the lump in his throat. That explained why Neal had chosen to back into the cage, and why it had taken him so long to do it, too. "I didn't know," he said, feeling like he was choking on the words. "I swear I didn't know."

"I know that, Peter," El said in a dull voice. "I know you didn't, which is why I'm not serving you divorce papers right now. Not that I'm happy you locked him in the damn cage like that at all. But this is partly my fault, too. I got this cage because it was on sale, planning to throw all of these horrible pieces away. But I should have warned you." She let out an unhappy laugh. "Of course, it never occurred to me that you might decide to stick Neal in it."

"Let's just get him out," Peter said, feeling numb inside. "We… we'll talk about it later.

"Yeah," Elizabeth agreed in a soft voice, biting her lip as she tried to slide the piece up. "It's too heavy for me. Peter, get it out."

Peter hesitated as his fingers brushed the metal, feeling ill. Part of him didn't want to do it because that meant he'd have to look Neal in the eyes, and he wasn't sure what that would do to him. He'd promised to protect Neal, and what had he done? He'd tortured him, just like the bastards at that prison. Nothing Neal could do was worthy of that. No one—*no one*—deserved to be tortured. Peter didn't care if they were goddamn Hitler himself. Torture was wrong, one hundred percent wrong, every time.

Peter was the one who deserved to be in that damn box now.

Taking a deep breath, Peter pulled up the slab, fully expecting Neal to come shooting out as fast as possible. It didn't happen, however, and Peter pulled the slab totally out, tossing it to the side, as he bent down to look into the box.

Peter swallowed hard at what he saw. Apparently the box had looked bigger from the outside than it was, because Peter had expected Neal to be hunched over inside it. Instead he was literally doubled over, chest to legs, and Peter could see what El had meant when she'd questioned how Neal could even get inside with the gag attached. Of course, his head was held at an awkward angle that would have put his mouth near the top of the tiny box, but it still would have been a painful fit.

Peter held his breath as he waited for the other shoe to drop and the accusations to start. God knew he deserved to be ripped apart. Hell, he was seriously considering punching himself in the face a few dozen times, schizophrenic Tyler Durden style.

Instead, Neal gave him a shaky smile. "Hi, Master. Can I… can I come out now?"

Peter blinked. That was it? 'Can I come out now?' That was all Neal had to say?

"Yeah," Peter said in a choked up voice. "You can come out, Neal." Peter felt a rush of embarrassment on Neal's behalf as the slave had to sort of wiggle himself around to escape the confines of the box. He made a face as he did so and Peter winced as he remembered what, exactly, Neal was having to pull himself off of.

Finally Neal got out far enough to free his arms, but he just let them sort of flop down in front of him as he continued to wriggle.

"You stripped him?" El asked under her breath, a shocked look on her face, and Peter's cheeks turned red.

"No! He took his clothes off while I was yelling at him."

El looked at him in disbelief. "Why would he do that?"

Peter dropped his eyes. "I think… I think he was showing me his bruises."

"Oh, God," El murmured, covering her face with her hands.

Neal gave one final grunt and pulled himself free of the box. He lifted up with a sigh of relief, then immediately toppled over with a yelp. Pete reached out and caught the slave before his face hit the floor, doing his best to ignore the way Neal's underpants were hanging halfway down his ass.

"Sorry, Master," Neal said, looking very embarrassed. "My arms and legs are asleep."

Peter reached out, silently pulling up Neal's underwear, but he didn't miss the way his slave flinched as he did so. Forget punching himself in the face, Peter was going to find a way to kick himself in the goddamn balls.

"It's okay, Neal," Peter said, any anger he may have still felt toward Neal overcome by the enormous guilt currently crushing his soul. He shifted the slave's slim figure around until he was sort of cradling Neal in his arms, and Neal responded by burying his face in Peter's chest. Not exactly the response he'd expected after sticking Neal in that nightmare.

"I'm sorry, Master," Neal said, voice a little muffled by Peter's shirt. "I'm sorry, Master. I was bad, and I'm sorry."

"Neal," El said in a soft voice, reaching out and running her fingers through his sweaty curls. "Can you please tell me what happened?"

Neal turned his face to look at her, his cheeks going a deep shade of red. "I was bad, Mistress, and I'm sorry." His voice cracked on the words.

"Yeah, I got that," El replied, looking like she was about to cry. "But I want to know what actually happened."

A nervous look passed over Neal's features and he turned his eyes to Peter, like he was somehow the answer. "Master can tell you."

"Peter already told me his side, Neal," El said gently. "Now I want to hear your side."

"I don't have a side, Ms. El," Neal said with a small shake of his head. "Master's side is my side, too." There was a childlike quality to the words that was just so unlike the Neal that Peter knew.

"Oh, please," Peter said teasingly, trying to keep the guilt still churning in his gut from spilling out and upsetting Neal more. "I've never known you to miss the chance to tell a tale."

"What you say is the truth," Neal said. "I don't need to tell anything. You're right, Master."

"You didn't even hear what he said," El countered.

"Doesn't matter," Neal replied simply. "Master's right."

El sat back a little, a look in her eyes that Peter recognized. His wife had a plan.

"So you *do* want me dead, then?" El said in an overly casual tone. "And Peter, too, of course."

The look of shock that came over Neal's face was too quick and too intense to be feigned. "Wh-what?"

"You want me dead," El repeated, sighing a little dramatically. "That makes me sad, Neal, it really does."

"I-I… Of course I don't want you dead, Ms. El!" Neal sounded horrified. "Why in the world would you think I want you dead?"

"That's Peter's side of it, and Peter's side is your side, right?" El said with a little shrug, and Neal turned his eyes on Peter, a look of total disbelief on his face.

"That… I… *What?*"

"The account information, Neal," Peter said, just saying the words making his heart ache. "When I checked it, there was a video. A video of you and Vincent Adler, the day Adler told you about the account."

Neal blinked, brow furrowing a little. "I-I don't understand."

"Really?" Peter said, the word coming out a little harsher than he meant, and El laid a hand gently on his arm. He took a deep breath, schooling his voice into calmness. "Because that's not what you said in the car, Neal."

"In the car? I…? But…? Master…? What does my bank account—I mean *your* bank account," Neal corrected quickly, eyes flitting nervously across Peter's face, "have to do with the hat stealer?"

o o o

Neal's heart was pounding like mad, and it took every ounce of con man in him to keep a calm, even expression on his face as the name 'Vincent Adler' rolled off Peter's tongue. How could Peter possibly know about Master Vincent? And what was he talking about, a video? Most importantly, why in God's name had Peter decided that Neal would he want to kill Ms. El? She was probably the nicest woman he'd ever met in his life!

"The hat stealer?" Peter questioned, looking as confused as Neal felt. "You mean Stephen Johnson?"

"Stephen Johnson?" Ms. El asked.

"He tried to assault Neal yesterday," Peter explained, making Neal wince a little. More like, Neal had smart mouthed a free man and said free man tried to put him in his place then got in trouble for doing it. "I fired the bastard. The schmuck got to start his brand new job in the unemployment line today."

Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a second… Neal's mind raced. His brand new job in the unemployment line? So… Peter didn't know this Johnson guy had gotten his job back? That didn't make any sense. If Peter didn't know Johnson had been in the building, then how could he know about what Neal had let the hat stealer do to him? He couldn't. It wasn't possible. Which meant… Oh, shit.

Pieces were beginning to fall into place and the puzzle they formed was not looking pretty.

Neal had to figure out what was going on and get this under control before it all blew up. Obviously he and Peter were, once again, not on the same wavelength, because if Peter hadn't known about Johnson and wasn't angry at Neal for letting the hat stealer fuck him, then he was angry about something *else.* And, if El's words were any clue, that 'something' was much, much worse than letting a scumball stick his dick up Neal's fuck hole.

It actually made some level of sense, in a messed up way. Peter's reaction *had* seemed insane just for a fuck in a closet, but for putting his wife's life in danger? Being dragged out of the office like a naughty boy, shoved onto the floor, yelled at, then put in a punishment box for an hour was nothing. Not if Peter really believed that Neal had been concocting some plan to hurt Ms. El. 

The question was: Why in God's name would he think Neal was trying to kill his wife? That was what Neal needed to figure out, and fast. Preferably *without* letting his little rendezvous with the hat stealer find its way into the conversation.

If Peter really *didn't* know about Johnson having fun with his johnson over lunch break, Neal was not about to tell him. His master was angry enough, and Neal hadn't forgotten the hat stealer's promise about what would happen if he went to Peter again. Obviously HR was firmly on the bastard's side, and Neal did not want to put himself in that position.

Okay, he needed to think and he needed to think fast…

"Master… In the car… What I said… I meant that you were right."

Peter's eyes flashed, and Neal winced. That had not come out exactly as he had intended.

"I mean, I said what you told me to say, because you basically asked me if you were right, and you're *always* right. I mean, the master is always right. But… But I'm not sure exactly that I meant what I said when I said what you told me to say… Mostly because I'm not entirely sure what you were talking about at all." Neal swallowed hard, hoping that admission wouldn't turn out to be a mistake. He was basically saying that it was possible his master had been wrong, but hopefully the twisted phrasing disguised that underlying meaning well enough.

"Wait, so… so you weren't talking about the bank account at all?" Peter said, his whole face suddenly awash with shame, eyes actually starting to shine a little. What the hell?

Neal's stomach turned. Seriously, was there no way to win in this conversation?! If he agreed with Peter, his master was pissed. If he didn't agree, his master was guilty. He was going for happy master, dammit! Couldn't somebody cut him a break here?

"Not exactly…" Neal said, doing his best to avoid black and white answers until he actually figured out what the subject was.

Peter's brow furrowed. "So what *were* you talking about, then?"

"I told you," Neal said quickly, "I was agreeing with you, Master."

A look of annoyance passed over Peter's face. "Fine, then what did you think *I* was talking about, Neal?!"

Neal's mind chugged along at overtime, coming up with and rejecting half a dozen stories before he settled on one. "I… I thought you were talking about that Stephen guy," Neal admitted finally, though that was damn well as far as he was going with the truth when it came to this particularly sensitive topic. He really didn't want to bring it up at all, but he couldn't come up with anything better off the top of his head.

"What? Why the hell would I have dragged you out of the office over Stephen Johnson?" Peter demanded.

Okay, here is where Neal needed to tread lightly… "I thought maybe he had reported you to HR for firing him," Neal replied, forming a defendable lie in his mind as quickly as possible. "I know that Human Resources tends to side with free men, not slaves, and I thought maybe he'd reported you and was trying to get you in trouble because of me." 

There. That was good. If Peter checked with HR, they'd back him up on the whole siding with Stephen thing and the idea that Peter might get in trouble for it was at least reasonable.

Peter blinked, then shook his head in disbelief. "That's insane, Neal. Why the hell would you think that?"

Hm… Why would he think that? "Because that's what I heard him tell his friend," Neal said, forming the situation in his mind as quickly as he could. "In the lunch line at the cafeteria. It turns out that HR gave him his job back, and he was complaining to his friend about you."

Peter's eyes flashed. "Oh, hell no! HR is *not* going to get away with undermining my authority like that! I am going to tell that Johnson bastard—"

"No, please don't!" Neal blurted out, reaching out and grabbing Peter's arm, his heart pounding. If Peter went to Johnson, his whole story fell apart *and* he'd be on the hat stealer's bad list. "Please, Master," he begged. "It's hard enough to be a well known criminal slave at the FBI office. Please, please, please just let the thing with Johnson go. Please, Master." Neal held his breath as Peter studied him with an inscrutable expression, giving a silent prayer that Peter would take his side for once.

"All right," Peter said finally, and Neal let out his breath in a whoosh. "But I don't like it, Neal. If he messes with you again, I want to know about it."

"Yes, Master," Neal lied, well aware that he was now up to his neck in lies over the whole incident in the closet thing.

"So back to the bank account," Ms. El said, bringing the conversation back to the real topic.

Amazingly enough, it was actually a relief. Who would have thought getting back to a conversation where you were being accused of attempting to off your master's wife could feel like a weight lifting off his shoulders. At least he knew for certain that he hadn't tried to kill Ms. El. He couldn't say the same for his little thing with Johnson. That had definitely happened, and it was humiliating enough without Peter finding out—especially since Peter would probably go off on the fucker in the middle of the goddamn FBI building, alerting everyone and sundry to the fact that it had been open season on Neal's ass in the freaking cafeteria. Better to wear the fucking hat and take his chances with Stephen than to have the whole world know the famous Neal Caffrey was really nothing but a cheap whore.

"Peter, do you still have the video?"

"Yeah," Peter said with a nod. "I can bring it up on my laptop, if you want."

"Good. That's good," El said. "Why don't you go get it? I'll help Neal here get dressed and we'll watch it together, okay? Then we can start this conversation off on level ground. I think there may have been some serious misunderstandings here."

You think? Neal resisted the urge to snort derisively. God, five minutes out of the box and he was already getting catty. It truly was time for him to face the facts and accept reality—for *real* this time—and he didn't even have to number them, because honestly there was just one.

Fact: Neal could have as many deep conversations with himself about appropriate slave behavior as he wanted. His sassy little ass was never going to change.

o o o

"Neal, can you stand up now?" El questioned, rather proud of how calm she was being. Inside she was breaking apart, watching the men in her life stumble clumsily around one another as they each tried to figure out what the other one was up to. God forbid they each just come out and say what they were feeling.

"I think so," Neal replied, flexing his knees. "Yeah, I can stand up."

El bit her lip as she watched him climb slowly to his feet, his gaze locked on Peter's form through the kitchen door, the look in his eyes a strange thing to watch.

One second he was scared, the next he was confused, and the next he was calculating, then it would start all over again, in that order, like the quick witted slave had compartmentalized things in his mind and was switching back and forth between them rather than letting them overcome him as a whole. It seemed like a very Neal-like thing to do, anyway.

Her poor husband, on the other hand, was one big lump of guilt and pain and confusion. The emotions were obviously overwhelming him, which meant that she was probably going to have to play the part of his common sense. Though she wasn't happy with the whole 'stick him in the box' insanity, she knew that Peter hadn't meant to truly hurt Neal, even in his rage.

Before SlaveMart, El sure wouldn't have been able to imagine what kind of horrors that innocuous little metal box held, and she knew her husband hadn't, either. But damn, Peter could be really stupid sometimes, particularly when it came to Neal. Of course, Neal could be pretty stupid when it came to her husband, too. It was a good thing they had her, or those two would *really* be screwed.

Neal and her husband were both brilliant men, but in very different ways. Neal was an achiever and a survivor. His greatest strength was being able to quickly and efficiently analyze people and problems and then mold himself into the person best suited for the situation. Being honest and up front about things—especially things concerning himself—was his biggest weakness.

Peter, on the other hand, was a detective and a loyalist. His greatest strength was using his passion and dedication to fuel his investigations, his intense beliefs and sense of justice rallying everyone around him and making him stand out as an exceptional leader. Those same passions were also his biggest weakness, however, his black and white sense of morality making it hard for him to see the many shades of grey in the world and leading to gut-instinct judgements when it came to people who didn't set their bar quite as high as he did when it came to 'right versus wrong.' Working in an office like Vice Collar, it wasn't really a problem, because the law was usually a pretty clear line, and Peter went after the people who crossed it. Period. End of story. Living with a man like Neal Caffrey, however, was a whole 'nother ball field.

"I'm going to get you some clean clothes, okay, Neal?" El said as she began to gather up his clothes off the floor.

"Okay," Neal said, not sounding like he really cared. His eyes were still locked on Peter, and it was obvious who he considered the real master of the house. You'd think he'd have realized by now that the queens always ruled behind the scenes. Of course, he *was* a man himself, whatever society said about slaves not being real men, blah blah blah. Neal had a dick, he was a man. Poor thing.

El bent down to pick up Neal's rumpled hat, frowning as something tumbled out. She started to pick it up, then froze as she realized what it was. Why in the world did Neal have a used condom in his *hat*, of all places?

A little kiss was one thing, but was her husband seriously having sex with Neal? The idea was shocking, mostly because there was no way she could imagine her fumbling husband, who had put her under *surveillance* rather than ask her out on a date, asking for sex from his *slave.* On the other hand, she sort of *could* imagine Neal coming on to Peter if he thought it would help secure his place in their home. But really, Peter having sex with Neal? It didn't seem… right. Besides, if they *had* gotten it on under her nose, why the heaven would Neal have put the condom in his *hat* of all places?

It made no sense, none at all. El glanced back over at Neal. His body was hunched over, the bruises on his skin bright against his pale flesh. He had his arms wrapped around himself as if they could somehow protect him from the world, and the thick collar on his neck added an ominous touch to the picture.

Forget it. Now was *not* the time to talk about this. They had more important issues to deal with, and besides, Peter should be the one she confronted over this, not Neal. If they'd had sex, which Elizabeth highly doubted, her husband needed to look her in the eye and tell her. If not, then that condom came from *somewhere*, and Peter needed to know about it so he could find out where. Somehow El didn't think Neal had a secret lover hidden in his sock drawer. No, a used rubber in a hat seemed a little more nefarious than that.

Elizabeth used the hat to pick up the condom, grimacing a little as she did so, and made her way up the stairs to find Neal some new clothes. She and Peter could talk about… other things… later.

o o o

Peter set the laptop down on the coffee table, taking a steadying breath. He needed to stay calm and keep a clear head on this one. Peter wasn't sure what Neal could possibly say to explain away the rather damning evidence that Adler had left behind, but he was sure a slave like Neal Caffrey could come up with *something*, which is exactly what worried Peter the most.

Even if Neal had a good explanation, how could Peter be sure that it was true? Neal was an excellent conman, that was something no one could dispute. The slave was capable of coming up with complex stories on the spot, complete with convincing details and a perfectly schooled face. Interrogation tactics were useless with Neal, because he knew as well as Peter did that people who made a point to look you in the eye while speaking to you or who supplied an excess of details without being asked were probably lying.

Of course, looking at the slave huddled up on the couch in sweats, his normally neat hair dried into messy curls and his eyes red from crying, it was hard to think of him as Caffrey the Conman. El was sitting beside him, and Peter noticed that while Neal was making a point not to touch her, he was subconsciously leaning in her direction. She made him feel safe. It was hard to believe Neal would put a hit out on a woman who made him feel safe. But then, he may not have known it would extend to her. Of course, he had to have known it would hurt her—losing Peter would rip El apart. Neal wouldn't want that, either, would he?

God, Peter's head was hurting already.

He finished setting up the laptop and took a seat on Neal's other side.

"Okay," he said, making sure to keep his words even. "Today I contacted Credit Suisse about your account, Neal—"

"Your account, Master," Neal interrupted immediately, and Peter sighed.

"Whatever. The account you gave me the info on. I wasn't planning on taking any money, I promise you that—"

"You can have all the money, Master," Neal said earnestly, reaching out like he was going to put a hand on Peter's arm then sort of freezing in mid-reach, licking his lips nervously, like he was trying to make himself do it and just couldn't. After a moment he pulled his hand away and set it back in his lap.

Another rush of guilt passed over Peter. Great. He'd terrified Neal. Just wonderful. Of course, that *had* been what he was going for, wasn't it?

Yeah, he was definitely going to need some aspirin when this was finished.

"I don't want the money, Neal, and that's not the point. The point is that the money is not the only thing I found in the account. I also found a video, from Vincent Adler." Peter paused, but Neal didn't bother trying to act like he didn't know exactly who that was and what relation he had to the man. That was a good sign. It meant Neal wasn't going to try and totally lie through his teeth.

"So… I guess now we watch the video, and you can see for yourself what I saw." Peter reached out to hit 'play,' and Adler's face came to life on the screen.

o o o

Neal sat up straight as Master Vincent appeared on the screen, his heart pounding in his chest as he stared at his old master's sly face.

"This account was created as a safety net for my favorite possession—a possession I very much intend to own again one day and, therefore, could use some insuring."

Neal blinked. What the hell was Master Vincent talking about? Own Neal again someday? He could have taken Neal with him then—Neal would have gone. He'd been infatuated with Master Vincent by the end. Even the promise of the beautiful Miss Kate wouldn't have been enough to keep him from going. Hell, he'd already planned to lie and tell Mozzie that he hadn't been able to get the password, just so he could stay with Master Vincent.

Of course, in the end he *hadn't* gotten the password, but that was because Master Vincent was so much smarter than he was.

"I put in an application to Sterling Bosch, but it was rejected. My favorite toy will appreciate the irony of that." Neal had to laugh, cutting it off abruptly when Peter shot him a strange look. Right. Peter didn't know about his escapades with Mademoiselle Sara.

Master Vincent laughed, too. "If you are watching this video, it means one of two things: Either my slave has told you about this account of his own free will, or his body is lying in shreds somewhere, the information ripped from him through whips and canes."

Neal choked at the words. Talk about a dark image. The implied threat was not lost on him. One thing he'd learned while serving the man was that there were no such thing as words with only one meaning, not when it came to Master Vincent.

"Whichever it may be, does not fare well for you." For who? Who was this video for? Obviously not for Neal. But if it wasn't for Neal, why had Master Vincent left it in the account? Was it for Mozzie? After all these years, was Master really still worried that Neal would give the account to the man Master Vincent liked to say had 'ruined' Neal?

"But before I get into that, there is something you should see. So sit back, relax, and enjoy a little trip down memory lane."

Neal made a small sound as Master's face disappeared, replaced by an image of his old office. Master was leaning against his desk, as if waiting for someone, and a moment later the door opened and Neal got a look at who.

The Neal in the video practically reeked of shame, his body hunched over and his head bowed as far as it could go as he sort of crept toward his Master's desk

"Hello, boy," Master said, a disgusted tinge to his cool voice. "I see you've been to the bank."

The Neal in the video looked up, tears in his eyes. "Yes, Master. I've been to the bank, Master."

"And what did you find?" More than what he had deserved to find. What he'd deserved to find was a one way ticket to hell. Oh, and maybe a needle filled with poison.

"A dollar, Master," video Neal replied so quietly it was hard to hear. "I found a single dollar, Master."

Master laughed at him disdainfully. "You are very clever, Nicholas," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "or should I say 'Neal', now?" He sneered, then added, "As clever as a slave can be, for certain," his tone making it clear that there *was* no such thing as a clever slave, and if there were, Neal wouldn't be it. "But you are not cleverer than I. You know that, don't you, Nicholas?"

"Yes, Master." Video Neal's face was as red as his ass deserved to be.

Neal felt his own face warm, and he glanced surreptitiously over at Peter, wondering if Master Vincent's words were ringing as true to Peter as they were to Neal.

"You're only a slave, pet." Just like Peter had told him. Only a slave, he was only a slave. What was wrong with him, going around acting like he knew anything at all? As Master Vincent had just proved, no slave was smarter than his master.

"Your abilities when it comes to besting fools have made you forget what you are."

The words stung, like a whip reaching back through time. Master Vincent was right, and if he'd listened to him, he'd never have gone to prison because he'd never have entertained the notion that he could possibly best a man like Peter. 

If a worthless little man like Stephen Johnson could knock Neal down and proverbially spit in his face—or, more literally, cum in his hat—then how could Neal possibly have stood even the tiniest chance against a great man like Peter Burke?

He shouldn't even be up here, sitting on the couch with this man like he was an equal, like he was a man himself. Master Vincent would never have allowed Neal to sit beside him like this, because he knew what Neal really was. Hell, he'd even failed at winning himself a spot at Master Vincent's feet the first night of his con job. Vincent had spotted Neal immediately for the liar he was, calling him out and making it clear he knew damn well that Neal was not one of the slaves scheduled to serve the event. It was only out of Master's kindness he'd even been allowed to see him again.

"I should put you down, if not for the act of lying to your master, then for the pitifulness of your little con job."

Neal licked his lips and dropped his head down to stare at his lap, not wanting to have to see the look on Master Vincent's face.

"Neal, watch the video," Peter said in a cold tone. Neal flinched a little at the words, then slowly forced himself to look up. Master Peter was right. He deserved to see himself for what he really was.

Neal's onscreen self was shaking his fear, as he should very well be. "Y-yes, Master. Th-That would be an appropriate punishment."

Master Vincent rolled his eyes at Neal's display, no doubt unimpressed by his cowardice. Neal shouldn't have shakily agreed he should be put down, he should have been making moves to do the deed himself. "Oh, quit stuttering and come kneel."

Video Neal obeyed, and somehow Master Vincent found the kindness to reach out and stroke his hair.

"I'm not putting you down, boy," he said, and the Neal on screen gave a shudder of relief. "I've found your fumbling attempts at deception quite amusing." He held Neal's head gently between his palms. "I'm more angry with whatever foolhardy freeman put you up to this than I am with you—and yes, I do know someone put you up to this."

Neal remembered vividly the terror he'd felt when Master had said those words, not sure whether or not Mozzie was alive or dead, wondering whether he would ever see his only friend ever again.

"You're only a slave, born to trust his master, and it was cruel of him to convince you that you are comparable to a man such as me, much less able to pull the wool over my eyes. I'm sorry he did that to you, boy."

Yes another painful truth. It was true, even if he didn't like to admit it. Mozzie really had ruined him.

On screen, Neal began to cry as the realization of what a terrible slave he was washed over him. His master was so good.

"I'm so sorry, Master. I love you. I swear I love you."

Neal wished he could turn his head away again, but Peter had been clear he had to make it through this video. Neal didn't really remember very clearly after this—he'd been too busy despising himself and soaking up his master's touch to concentrate—but he did know that this was the day Master had told Neal he was leaving his unworthy pet. 

It must have been the day he gave Neal the account information, too, because he knew Master had given it to him personally, along with some kind of warning not to give it away to Miss Kate—Master Vincent always had thought she was kind of stupid—and this was the last time he'd seen Master, so he had to have gotten it then.

"I know, pet," Master crooned, his fingers running through Neal's hair. Neal swallowed hard as he remembered the wonderful feeling of having the master you loved stroke you like that.

"And that's why I am going to make sure no one ever takes advantage of you again," Master continued. He pulled out a piece of paper. "I have here the number to a personal account under the name of Nick Adler. The password is ancient lyre."

Nice try, Neal. Neal's cheeks went red. It was a pointed jab, that password, poking fun at Neal, implying that he might very well be fooled again by the same trick. What was the saying? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Shame on Neal in general, for being such a bad slave. With that as the account's password, he would definitely never be able to forget it. Every time he dipped into Master's money, he would be forced to relive his treachery. That was probably one of the main reasons he never had.

"I'm a traitor," Neal whispered, and Peter gave him a sharp look, not that Neal blamed him. It was disgusting, the way he'd betrayed the man who owned him.

On screen, Neal joined his master in laughing at himself, face hot with the humiliation of it. "Nice try, Neal. Just like the other account."

"Nice try, Neal," Master Vincent agreed, smiling down at him. "There is enough money in there for you to live off of for a lifetime. In a few hours, every employee and investor of Adler Industries is going to be broke. They will discover what it is like to be fools amongst great men. I will have to flee then, and I cannot take you with me. Instead, I will be handing over your bill of sale to the lady you love so much."

There. Those were the last words Neal remembered clearly. After that it was just a huge rush of emotion as he screamed inside at the idea of being separated from his master, of being left behind by the man he worshiped.

"I swear, Master, I never—"

Adler held up a hand and Neal went silent, his foolish protests of his innocence when it came to anything involving the pretty Miss Kate cut off before the bullshit could even begin.

"I know. But she will make a good mistress for you. I want to make one thing clear, however. The money in this account is for you and you alone. I know you have a hard time understanding the concept of possession, but I am giving this money to you. It is for your personal use, not for your master's."

Okay, and there was the warning not to hand it all over to Miss Kate just to get between her legs like the fucked up, very bad slave he was. Neal remembered that.

"Y-you want me to lie to my master?"

Master Vincent's laugh was tinged with disgust. "You say that as if you haven't been lying to me for months."

"Traitor," Neal whispered as he stared at himself on screen. He jumped as he felt Peter's hand clamp down on his leg.

"But don't worry—if a master forces it from you, I promise you this: he will not live to spend a cent. I will destroy him and everything he loves. This account is not only for your survival; it is for your protection. Use it like a fist. Use it like a sword. If someone hurts you, give them the account, and I will deal with them."

Neal stared down at the hand clenching almost painfully at his thigh, barely even hearing the video anymore—it was just some rambling from Master Vincent about taking out anybody who dared try and steal his money, an obvious reference to the the pitiful heist Neal had just failed to pull off, along with a subtle warning about what would happen if he dared to give a cent to the so-called 'foolhardy free man' who had 'put him up to the job.'

Master had seriously despised liberationists, insisting all they were doing was ruining the lives of happy slaves. In fact, the very last thing Master had ever said to Neal was that Mozzie's foolishness would only hurt him in the end and that he should take up the slave's sword—whatever the hell that was—and strike against the brainwashing before it destroyed him forever.

Hell, in reality Master had probably been *disappointed* that Neal hadn't given Mozzie the account info. It would have been very poetic, his friend's death being brought about by the very thing they'd been trying to get out of their con—his Master's account info. Neal had never really contemplated it before, but that may have been why Master gave him the money at all. The poetic justice and general irony of it all would certainly have pleased his conniving Master, that was for sure.

"Do you understand me, little one?" The growl in Master Vincent's voice was enough to catch Neal's attention, and he shivered at tone. Yeah, he'd gotten it all right. He'd been very, *very* damn lucky that he'd gotten out of that one alive. Hell, he'd been lucky Master Vincent hadn't decided to put a bullet in Mozzie's head that very day, much less a needle in Neal's arm.

"Stupid fucking traitor," Neal whispered once more, the yelped as the hand on his leg went from almost painful to flat 'hurts like hell,' nails digging into his flesh.

Neal turned his head, eyes going wide as he caught the furious look Peter was sending his way.

"Yes, Master," Neal's terrified voice came from the laptop, but Neal didn't dare look away from Peter's angry eyes to see what was happening. "I-I understand …Thank you, Master."

Out of the corner of his eye Neal saw the screen go black and, quick as lighting, Peter reached out and slammed the laptop closed hard enough to make the coffee table rattle. Neal flinched.

"Is it true, Neal?"

Neal's brow furrowed a little. "M-Master?"

"Is it true?" Peter narrowed his eyes, voice going low. "Are you a traitor, Neal?"

The words hit hard and Neal glanced back over at the laptop, then back at Peter, then over at the laptop again, mind working overtime as he tried to process exactly what was happening. Okay, so Master Vincent had sent Master Peter the video of Neal being caught in his betrayal all those years ago, a video that brought every single shaming truth about Neal into bright relief. But what was the point—

Oh, God.

Neal's stomach turned as it suddenly hit him like a ton of bricks. He understood now. He finally understood. He got it… After all these years, his past was coming back to haunt him. He thought he'd gotten away with the terrible things he'd done to Master Vincent, thought the past was the past, but Master hadn't forgotten. 

All this time he'd been waiting, waiting for a time when Neal had the greatest hope, so that he could send it tumbling down. That was what he'd meant when he said he'd own Neal again. The video, not the money, was his insurance. Insurance that Neal would pay for his crimes.

Poetic justice indeed.

Tears welled up in his eyes as the full weight of the situation sunk in. All this time, Neal thought he'd been smart, he thought he'd been quick, but really Master had just been waiting for the very best time to put him back in his place and remind him how stupid he really was.

Working with Peter could have given Neal a whole new life. With Peter as his master, Neal wouldn't have had to run anymore. On top of that, Peter was a kind master, the sort of master who let you sit by his side instead of at his feet where you belonged. And El, so sweet and kind… She had given him his very own towel. 

It could have been a whole new world, free from fear and pain and loneliness, full of opportunity and second chances. But now that Peter had seen what a traitor Neal was, how he had so easily betrayed his master, what his egotistical stupidity had brought about, it would never happen. No one wanted a slave like him. Master Vincent's words fresh on his mind, Neal was sure of that.

Neal still wasn't sure where the 'killing El' thing came in, but maybe it was some sort of metaphorical thing, something free men said that he'd never heard. Neal didn't know for certain, but there was one thing he was very certain of: His chance for a new life was gone and Neal had himself to thank for it.

Once again, Master Vincent had put Neal back in his place where he belonged.

"Yes, Master," Neal whispered, voice cracking as tears ran down his cheeks. "I am a traitor. It's true."


	16. The Nice Policeman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter remembers why he joined Vice Collar, Neal makes sassy remarks about anthropomorphized trains, and Master Vincent's machinations really piss Neal off.

"Thank you," Peter said as the woman handed him his coffee, taking a sip as he handed her the cash. Ah, man, that was good. It was nice to be back in the City for a few days. Virginia was okay, but there was no place like Manhattan. Besides, he could use a break. He'd thought playing ball was rough, but the Academy was a work out physically *and* mentally. Not long now, though, and he'd be graduating, top of his class.

Peter hadn’t really considered himself the crime fighting type when he was young. He'd been aiming for an accounting job when he was through playing ball. After messing up his rotator cuff, however, he'd wanted something a little more exciting than doing books, something that would impress the ladies, maybe. 

When the FBI had offered him a place at Quantico, Peter had quickly warmed to the idea, imagining himself whipping out his badge at bars with a smooth 'Peter Burke, FBI, for real—but I do female body inspections, too!' Once he'd really gotten into the program, though, he'd found it to be a remarkable fit for his talents.

Peter had always had a strong sense of justice, and this allowed him to use that for good. He couldn't wait to get his badge and get to work in the field, righting wrongs and fighting for the safety and protection of citizens everywhere. As the top student in his class, he'd have his pick of the entry level field positions, whichever division he wanted. He was leaning toward Organized Crime. The way the cartels used illegal aliens to sneak drugs into the country without even a thought for the poor people's lives really made his blood boil. He felt it was a place where he could really do some good.

"Did you think you would get away with lying to me, you bitch?"

Peter jumped at the sudden shout, automatically searching for the source. He wasn't an agent yet, but he was more than willing to do his part as a concerned citizen in breaking up whatever ensuing bit of domestic insanity was about to begin.

"Did you? Answer me, or I will beat it out of you!"

Okay, that was definitely a threat. Peter doubled his search, scanning the cluttered park for the source of the shouting as he headed toward the phone booth a few feet away, ready to give the cops a call. Finally his eyes locked on the pair and he stopped in mid step, frowning at the scene before him. A 9-1-1 call would be useless, because there was no citizen to save here. Only a slave, and God knew the cops couldn't care less about slaves.

Over by a tree about twenty feet away, a large man was looming over a tiny little boy with dark, messy hair and a terrified expression on his face. He was wearing a leather collar around his neck that was so oversized it looked ridiculous and a red t-shirt with a picture of Thomas the Tank Engine smiling on the front.

Peter winced as the man lifted a big hand and slapped the boy in the face hard enough to send him toppling to the ground. Seriously? The kid couldn't be more than seven or eight! Peter couldn't imagine what a tiny thing like that could have done to deserve such a hit.

The boy pushed himself to his hands and knees, looking up at the man with wide eyes, his nose bleeding badly. He said something, soft enough that Peter couldn't hear it, and the man chose to kick him this time, sending him toppling down again.

Okay, that was it. Peter didn't care if the kid was that guy's slave or not, this was wrong. He was not particularly fond of slavery in general, the idea of owning a person like you owned a lamp creeping him out a bit, but what he really hated was that, even at Quantico, everybody seemed to think it was just fine and dandy to hit them and starve them and even rape them. There was something twisted about the fact that people who would arrest someone for fighting roosters couldn't care less about little slave boys being beaten up in the middle of the park.

Peter strode in their direction, putting on his most authoritative face. He didn't actually have a badge, but his Quantico ID card said 'FBI' on it, and it looked official enough to pass.

"Hey, how about you take it easy, buddy," Peter said, flashing his ID card long enough for the jerk to see the 'FBI' stamp but not long enough for him to read 'In Training.' "Peter Burke here."

The man held up his hands, a pleasant smile coming over his face. It kind of made Peter want to punch him. "Oh, hey, Officer," he said in in a thick Brooklyn accent. "There seems to be a misunderstandin'. This boy here is my slave."

"Yeah, I can see that," Peter said shortly. "And whatever point you were trying to make, I'm sure the kid's got it by now." Peter glanced down at the boy, giving him what he hoped was a comforting smile.

The kid blinked up at him from where he was kneeling in the grass, a confused look in his big, blue eyes.

"Here, kid," Peter said, pulling out his handkerchief and holding it out to the boy. "For your nose."

The boy hesitated, glancing up at his master. The man glared at Peter for a moment then gave the kid a short nod. The boy took the handkerchief carefully, like he was afraid it might bite, then pressed it to his little nose.

"Officer, I'm sure you're just tryin' to help, but the boy lied to me. Flat out lied to me. That ain't right for a slave to do, and he needs to learn that or he be gettin' in bigger trouble down the line."

"I'm sure he's learned his lesson," Peter replied in a sharp voice.

The man snorted. "Oh, I don't think he has. You know what he gone and did? He took my goddamn wallet out of my pocket, stole my condom, put my wallet back, then when I went lookin' for my rubber, he told me we used it up last night. Tried to con me, he did, the little bitch. But I ain't easily tricked like that. I put that damn rubber in there this morning. I know I did, 'cause I went outta my way to get the goddamn strawberry flavored one and *not* the cherry flavored one so this little brat wouldn't bitch how it tastes like cough drops. So here I was, goin' outta my way to be nice and all, and he tried to pull one over on me. Talk about a little traitor, yeah?"

Peter stared at the man in disbelief, his mind not wanting to process the man's words, mostly because they were so totally disgusting. Weren't slaves supposed to be twelve before you did, well, *that*? He remembered from class that efflings had to be at least twelve, but did that mean they had to be twelve to be sold for sex or twelve to have sex with them at all? Peter didn't know for certain, but he was damn well sure that this kid was *not* twelve. God, this was disgusting.

"Kid, are you okay?" Peter asked, not caring that the master was now shooting him daggers with his eyes. Someone apparently did not like having their authority undermined.

The kid just looked up at him with those big blue eyes, an embarrassed look on his face. "Yes, Mister Peter. And it's true. I am a traitor. Master was being real nice, and I tried to trick him. I'm a bad slave, I should get a whipping."

A traitor? Stealing a condom to try and get out of being raped by a pedophile didn't make you a traitor—it made you sane.

"And you will get a whippin'," the man snapped, holding out his hand. The little slave climbed to his feet, taking the hand without question, like any kid strolling through the park with his dad would. "You damn well will. And when we get home, we're using the cherry."

The boy made a face. "Please, Master, I'm really sorry—"

"Oh, shud up, ya little brat. You're always sorry when ya get caught. You can suck on that, literally and figuratively."

"But I *hate* cough drops."

"Ya gonna hate my cock down ya throat when I get finished with ya, silly kiddo," the man replied in a disturbingly affectionate tone, and the boy actually giggled. "Now say bye bye to the nice policeman, yeah?"

"Bye bye to the nice policeman!" The kid shouted out, sort of dancing around as he waved excitedly, making his master chuckle. The man ruffled the kid's hair as they walked away.

Peter just stared at them in disbelief as they wandered off happily together, feeling absolutely stunned. Had that *really* happened?

Peter shook his head as he bent down to pick up the bloody handkerchief that the kid had dropped on the ground. Here was proof that it had. In a way that was good, because he didn't want to imagine that his mind could come up with something that disturbing on its own. On the other hand, it meant that there were pedophiles out there walking the street with little kids in hand and nobody was doing a damn thing about it. *Not* a pleasant realization.

Why didn't these kind of things come up in the FBI files? Peter had read through hundreds of closed cases, and he only remembered a single one involving underage efflings, and it hadn't even been about the kid. They'd arrested the man for bringing in slaves illegally from China, and it just so happened that one of them was five. In fact, that's pretty much what all the Vice Collar cases had been about—stopping the trade of illegally imported slaves. Nothing about stopping the misuse of the slaves they already had in their own damn country. Because what did their own slaves matter as long as SlaveMart wasn't being threatened by cheap black market stock from Russia?

Peter straightened his shoulders in resolve as he stared down at the handkerchief dangling between his fingers. Screw Organized Crime. He was going into Vice Collar.

o o o

"Peter?" Ms. El said, touching her husband gently on the arm, and Peter physically jerked, shaking his head rapidly as he stared at Neal with a strange expression on his face.

"What did you say?"

Neal sniffed, wiping his face with the back of his hand, wincing a little. His cheek still burned where Peter had slapped it. Somehow he had a feeling it wouldn't be the last strike of the day. "I said, it's true. I am a traitor. I'm a bad slave."

A look of disbelief came over Peter's face. "No way," he muttered, seemingly to himself. "It can't be. No way."

"It's true," Neal said, voice cracking as he prayed to whatever God existed that somehow he would come out of this unscathed, or at least alive. "It's true, okay? I betrayed Master Vincent! He gave me everything and I tried to pull one over on him, after all that he did for me. I'm a traitor. I betrayed him."

"Wait a second…" Ms. El said, holding up a hand. "So, when you say you're a traitor, you're talking about this Adler guy?"

Neal blinked. Who else would he be talking about? "Yes, Ms. El. I betrayed him."

"No way," Peter mumbled again, making Neal wonder if the man was even hearing the conversation going on around him. "It would be too much of a coincidence. This city's too big. It's not possible."

"Peter, what are you babbling about?" Ms. El asked, looking annoyed. "Are you losing your mind?"

"Neal, did you like Thomas the Tank Engine?" Peter asked urgently, leaning forward like this was the most important question in the world.

"Excuse me?" Neal said, looking at Peter like he'd lost his mind. Talk about a subject change.

"When you were a little kid. Did you like Thomas the Tank Engine?"

"Uh, yeah," Neal said slowly. He wasn't exactly sure why the hell that mattered, but if it got them off the topic of him being a giant ass traitor, he guessed he was okay with it. Plus Peter didn't seem nearly so angry anymore. "I mean, who doesn't like Thomas the Tank Engine? It's an anthropomorphized train with a pudgy face and a big smile."

"Um, why exactly are we talking about trains?" Ms. El asked, a question Neal wouldn't mind hearing the answer to.

Peter didn't seem to hear her, staring at Neal like he was trying to see inside his skull. "What about cough drops?"

"You want to know if a cough drop is an anthropomorphized train?" Neal said with a disrespectful snort, wondering idly if he'd been knocked unconscious and this was some kind of weird dream. "I suppose it's possible, Master. They have Flintstones vitamins, after all. I suppose anthropomorphic trains that soothe the throat could be the next step in evolution."

"No, I mean, do you like cough drops?" Peter said, apparently too busy trying to gaze into Neal's soul to catch the sarcasm. "Well?" he asked when Neal didn't answer right away, fingers tapping impatiently at his knee.

God, was he being timed now? What was going on with Peter? One second he'd been all pissed, now he'd gone insane. Neal wasn't sure yet if this was a good or a bad thing, but he'd rather talk cough drops than killing sprees, so...

"Um, I guess. I mean, I don't exactly eat them like candy, but I don't hate them." Neal paused. "Well, except the cherry ones. I don't like the cherry ones. The orange ones and the grape ones and stuff are okay, though. Why? Are we going cough drop shopping, sir?" He feigned excitement, clapping his hands together. "Oh, oh, could we please take the anthropomorphized train to the store?" God, he was such a disrespectful ass. Oh well. If you were going to go out, might as well go out with a rude comment and a disdainful smile.

"Okay, they've both gone mad," Ms. El murmured, sitting back on the couch and putting her feet up on the coffee table like she was getting ready to watch a show.

Peter's mouth dropped open and he stared at Neal like his head had just turned into a pineapple or something. For a second Neal was afraid he was about to see the consequences of being a rude schmuck to his master, but then Peter exclaimed, "It was you! Oh my God, it was *you.*"

It was? Okay. Apparently it was him. "Uh… is 'yes' the correct answer to that question, Master?" Neal asked carefully, raising his eyebrow questioningly at Peter.

"You were wearing a Thomas the Tank Engine shirt," Peter said in a conspiratorial voice, like he was sharing some kind of secret. "A red Thomas the Tank Engine shirt."

Neal blinked. "Um, believe it or not, but I don't actually have a Thomas the Tank Engine shirt, Master. I know it should be a staple in every man's wardrobe, but—" Neal cut off, frowning as a memory popped up. Actually, he *had* owned a Thomas the Tank Engine shirt, well, about twenty years ago anyway. One of his trainers had given it to him after he'd learned to deep throat without puking. Not exactly an appealing backstory, but he'd really loved the shirt. And it had been nice not to spend an hour every day vomiting on his own lap. Trainer Joey had given him the shirt. Neal had liked Trainer Joey. He always bought flavored condoms, which to a kid was the best thing ever. Except the cherry ones. He hadn't liked those. They'd tasted like cough drops.

Wait a second...

Neal's eyes widened slightly as he stared at Peter. How had Peter known about that? Vice Collar didn't have any information about his childhood, certainly not little details like Thomas the Tank Engine and cherry cough drops. How in God's name could Peter know those things?

"How did you…?"

"You were in a park, and he hit you," Peter said softly, staring at Neal with something akin to wonder. "Your nose was bleeding."

Neal's breath caught. No way. Peter had been right—it wasn't possible. There were millions of people in Manhattan. The idea that their paths had crossed not once but twice was absurd. The odds against it were immense.

And yet Neal remembered that day, not because of the bloody nose—he'd received plenty of those as a kid—but because of the big, boxy policeman who'd swooped in and chastised his trainer right in front of him. He'd thought it was absolutely hilarious, and Trainer Joey had mumbled about it in annoyance for days. Not to mention that it had distracted his trainer enough that he'd pretty much forgotten about the little con job Neal had been trying to pull.

"Handkerchief guy?" Neal asked in disbelief, eyes going wide when Peter nodded. "You… you were the nice policeman?"

"I wasn't actually a policeman," Peter said, looking mildly embarrassed. "I was a few weeks from graduating from the Academy. I flashed my FBI ID card, counting on the fact that he'd miss the 'In Training' part."

Neal snorted, shaking his head. "Trainer Joey could barely spell his own name. I don't think you had anything to worry about there."

Peter made a face. "Was that his name? Man, I really wanted to punch that guy for the way he treated you."

Neal chuckled. "I liked Trainer Joey. He was nice to me."

"Forcing a little kid to have oral sex with him is nice?"

Neal shrugged. "Somebody was gonna do that. At least Joey tried to make it kind of fun. Or at least not completely horrible. I liked the flavored condoms. Sometimes I'd steal them and suck on them just for fun."

"And you were already a little con artist back then. Unbelievable," Peter said, but not like it was a bad thing. He was actually smiling.

"Not a very good one apparently," Neal replied, returning his smile a little shakily. It seemed that Angry Master was gone. That, at least, was a good thing. Maybe he *wouldn't* die tonight.

"You were the reason I decided to go into Vice Collar, you know," Peter said, letting out a little huff of laughter.

"Seriously?" Neal asked, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. He hadn't expected that. "Me?"

Peter shrugged. "I was the top student in my class. I had the pick of any department I wanted. I was planning to go into Organized Crime, try to take down the cartels, that kind of thing, but after I saw you, I realized that I had to go into Vice Collar."

"Why?" Neal questioned, genuinely interested. "What about me made you decide that?"

"That was the day I realized that the FBI was seriously lacking when it came to taking care of the slaves in this country," Peter explained, a troubled look coming over his face. "Out of the hundreds of closed cases I'd been through, every single Vice Collar case was about keeping out illegal slaves from other countries, not about making sure the slaves we already had were being protected. Until then, I hadn't really thought about the fact that slaves needed protecting. I mean, a master can do what he wants with a slave, right?"

"That's what they told me, anyway," Neal said dryly, earning himself a small chuckle from Peter.

"Yeah, well, that's not totally true, though," Peter said. "I mean, okay, a master who legally owns an adult slave can pretty much do whatever he wants with it. But there are regulations on the ways the big slave corporations can house their slaves, on the ways you can buy and sell slaves, on how a slave can be used on public property, and, in your case, how old slaves need to be to fill certain roles. Yet no one was looking into those things at all. It practically stank of SlaveMart throwing around money behind the scenes. When I saw you, that tiny little boy in his Thomas the Tank Engine t-shirt chatting away with a middle aged jerk from Brooklyn about the different flavors of condoms, I knew somebody had to step up and do something, because this wasn't right."

Neal stared at Peter, for once not sure what to say. That was really why Peter had gone into Vice Collar? Neal had assumed it was for the glory of taking down big name slavers and black market kings and world famous forgers. Peter had gone into Vice Collar for the *slaves*?

The idea was just so foreign to Neal. He'd always thought of Vice Collar as the department that put bad slaves away, not the one who tried to protect them. But he guessed it was true, in a sense. After all, Vice Collar didn't actively go after criminal slaves, it was the masters who ordered the crimes that they really cared about. Hence Neal's decision to tell Kate nothing about his extracurricular activities. Neal had been the only actual slave on the FBI's Most Wanted list. Everyone else was a master or a trainer or some other kind of free man.

"It really upset you that much?" Neal asked, still stunned by the thought. "Why? I was just some boy-slave you'd never seen before. Why would you care?"

"You were a *kid,* Neal," Peter said, as if that was answer enough. Apparently he thought it was, because he didn't elaborate.

"I was a *slave*, Master," Neal replied in the same tone, making Peter sigh.

"Being a slave doesn't make you a nobody, Neal, at least not in my book."

Neal dropped his eyes to hide the way the words kind of warmed him inside. Whatever his flaws, Peter really was one of the kindest masters he'd ever met. "I guess your book is a little different from everyone else's," Neal said quietly, looking up at Peter through his lashes.

"Hell, if you were a nobody, why did I dedicate three years of my life to catching you?" Peter countered, making Neal smile a little.

"Because I drove you crazy and taunted you like mad?" Neal suggested, and Peter laughed.

"Yeah, okay, you did. But I *do* care about slaves, Neal. That's why I do this job. I don't like the way that some men think they can force their slaves to do illegal things and get away with it. Uh-uh. If slaves really aren't allowed to make their own choices, then the owners' hands are *not* clean when they do bad stuff. You can't have it both ways. Either slaves are responsible for themselves and, therefore, get to make their own choices, or you are responsible for your slaves' actions."

A brazen statement, but one that Neal admittedly agreed with.

"Masters shouldn't get to pick and choose—that's abuse," Peter continued, obviously on a roll. "And honestly, I don't like the idea of having slaves supposedly 'designed' for sex work at all, but when it comes to little kids in that situation, I have zero tolerance. Hell, I don't think *twelve* is anywhere near old enough—I think slaves should have to be eighteen to be trained as sexual entertainment—but I can only work within the law. I will not, however, sit back and let slavers like SlaveMart get away with sneaking little kids into their batches of fucklings." Peter scowled. "What makes me really sick when it comes to your story, Neal, is how they 'fixed' the problem by putting S&Ds out on a bunch of kids." He shook his head in disgust. "Yet another example of slaves being punished for things the masters deserve to go down for."

"I agree, you know," Neal admitted, running a hand nervously through his hair. "Not to say I think a master shouldn't be able to do anything he wants with his slave," he added quickly, "I do. And as for how old you need to be for sex, I dunno… You might as well learn it young, in my opinion. I mean, I turned out okay."

Peter snorted, and Neal shot him a look before continuing.

"But when it comes to the big slavers, there's something fucked up there. Those companies are dirty. They break the rules all the time and never get caught because they have Senators in their pockets. Trust me, I know. I've been in several of the main corporate offices. Allegedly," he added a little hastily. "And some of the rich bastards I may or may not have ripped off after conning them into buying me from myself? They deserve to rot just for buying slaves under the table. Get your slaves from a damn dealer, not from the black market, where having chopped off limbs or a cut out tongue or some sort of mental disorder is considered a great selling point."

"Oh, don't even get me started on the black market," Peter growled. "I have seen a lifetime's worth of abused and deformed slaves. I am no SlaveMart fan, but they're a thousand times better than that. I don't know what those trainers do to those slaves, but I'd say at least half of them have gone insane from it. It's beyond disturbing."

"Yeah," Neal said, nodding in agreement. "It's like being rich is so boring that they have to torture slaves because they have nothing better to do. Take a vacation, sponsor a charity event, clip your damn toenails, but don't cut a slave's nose off for the entertainment value! Seriously, you wonder why I stole all that overpriced, fancy ass bondage equipment from those types? *That's* why."

"Well, it sounds like you boys think more alike than you knew," Ms. El said suddenly, causing both men to look at her. She smiled. "It's nice to see the two of you talking about the same subject at the same time. It's a real improvement."

Neal cleared his throat, feeling a little embarrassed by his sudden diatribe. He wasn't sure when this conversation had gotten so off track. "I'm sorry, Master," he said as he turned back to Peter, cheeks a little red. "I didn't mean to… It wasn't appropriate for me… I wasn't… Aw, shit. I'm really bad at doing the silent slave thing, Master."

El made a sound like she was trying not to laugh and Peter shook his head, looking amused.

"It's okay, Neal. You're allowed to have opinions." Peter paused, face growing serious. "Answer me this question, Neal, and I want you to be honest." Neal nodded as Peter stared at him seriously. "Did you or did you not give me the account information because you knew that Vincent Adler would attempt to kill El and I if you did?"

Whoa. Wasn't that just a doozy? Neal was well aware that his mouth was hanging open like a damn fly trap, but he didn't really care. "No, Master of course not!" Neal said, the words coming out in a rush. "I… I don't… No! No, I didn't know Master Vincent would try and *kill* you! *Is* he trying to kill you?" That would definitely explain the fit Peter had thrown in the office. "Why would you think he’s trying to kill you?"

Neal wracked his brain, trying to remember if there was anything in that video that Peter might have drawn that conclusion from. The only thing Neal could think of were Master Vincent's threats against Mistress Kate and Mozzie, but how could Peter think either of those applied to him? They were obviously targeted at Mistress and his friend... Weren't they? "I haven't even seen him in years! Master, I don't understand. Why in God's name would you think some master of mine from years ago is trying to kill you? He didn't like me *that* much!"

Peter looked at him seriously for another moment before reaching out and opening his laptop back up, hitting the button to play. Master Vincent's face appeared on the laptop screen again, his smile twisting into something wicked. "Tell me, Agent Peter Burke, why do you think he did it?"

Neal stared at the computer in disbelief. This video was meant specifically for *Peter*? Neal had known it wasn't for him, but it hadn't occurred to him that it was for Peter specifically. No wonder the man was freaked out. Neal had given him account information and what had Peter found? A message specifically for him from one of the worst Vice Collar masterminds around. And back through the rabbit hole they went.

"Don't bother looking for hidden cameras or live feeds," Master Vincent said, letting out a little laugh. "This is a recording—I made it the moment I heard you'd taken my slave under your wing. I'm no fool. Really, though, why do you think he did it? Didn't you wonder, when he first gave it to you? Didn't you wonder *why*?"

"Why I gave you what?" Neal asked a little frantically, growing more confused by the second. What was Master Vincent talking about? And what did it have to do with *killing* his new master?

"Did you think it was because he trusted you? Did you think it was because he feared you? Or, dare I say it… because he *loved* you?"

Peter's face caught Neal's eye. It had gone an intense shade of red, an interesting occurrence that sent up flags all over his little fuckling mind. Surely that didn't mean… Peter didn't really… Nah, he was probably just embarrassed that he'd been played. Yeah. That was it. Neal knew how that felt, and it definitely wasn't easy on the ego. That was totally it.

"Why, why, *why* would your new slave give you all the information to a bank account with over a million dollars?"

Oh, so the bank account was what he'd 'given' Peter. But why would Master Vincent care about what Neal did with the stupid bank account? Was this somehow part of his twisted plan to get back at Neal for betraying him, putting up a video specifically for Peter so that Peter would think Neal was in contact with Master Vincent? If so, the plan was getting pretty damn complex. What was his old master, a goddamn time traveler? To set this kind of thing up, he'd practically have to be.

"Why you and not his precious Mistress Kate or the funny little man who does his best to ruin my pet?"

"Gee, I dunno," Neal snapped, "maybe because you practically spelled out that they'd die tragically if I did? Oh yeah, and they're both motherfucking thieves."

"Did you think you were different? Did you think you were special? I bet you never thought it was because he wanted you dead."

"Whoa! Whoa, hold up!" Neal said a little frantically, earning himself a look from Peter. "Just FYI: He totally lost me there, okay? I am officially lost."

Seriously, since when did he want Peter dead? Obviously whoever had decided that he did forgot to inform Neal, because last time he checked Peter was pretty much the last person he'd want dead.

"Are you having a hard time believing it, Agent Burke? You shouldn't—after all, you just heard it for yourself."

When? When had Master Peter heard it for himself?! Neal was pretty sure he hadn't heard himself shout 'I want to kill Master Peter!' on the video screen.

"This account is not only for precious Neal's survival, it's for his protection. And he gave it to you. He might as well have put a target on your back."

A target? Neal didn't have any damn targets. He didn't even like projectile weapons. They said that gunshot residue was bad for the skin.

"Is your whole world tumbling down now, noble Agent Burke?"

How the hell would Neal make Peter's life tumble down? He was just a fucking slave, not the man's goddamn wife. Now, there were plenty of ways Peter could make *Neal's* life tumble down, the first on the list being him *dying* and leaving Neal to the loving protection of the prison system.

"Have you begun to see what happens when you treat a slave like something more than it is? You gave it too much leash, and now it has come back to bite you."

Okay, well that was sort of true. Neal had acted like a little ass since he'd been out, but once again, why the hell would Master Vincent care? It wasn't like he'd been here to see it! 

"No one is safe now, Agent Burke. Not you, and not anyone connected to you—not even your beautiful wife."

"Did he seriously just threaten Elizabeth?" Neal demanded, suddenly feeling pretty pissed at his old master. It was one thing to get his revenge on the slave who'd betrayed him, but how dare he bring the woman who'd given Neal his own towel into this? That was not cool. Seriously not cool. He did *not* like it when people threatened innocent women. That was not what gentlemen did, and Neal believed in being a gentleman. Well, a gentleslave, anyway, since he wasn't a man exactly. But whatever. The point was, how dare Vincent fucking Adler come right out and threaten Ms. El?

Shit, no wonder Peter had been so pissed when he dragged him out of the office. It did look pretty bad, opening up an account given to you by the criminal slave living in your house only to find a personalized message from one of the FBI's Most Wanted threatening the life of you and your wife. Neal could see how the idea that he'd had nothing at all to do with this might be a hard sell. He'd better start working on his pitch, because if he didn't make his quota today, Neal had a feeling he'd be seeing more than some docked pay and a loss of commission.

"But," Master Vincent continued, holding up a finger, "because I am a generous man, I am going to give you a chance to rectify this. This is not the first time Neal has turned on its master, and it is a behavior that needs to be stopped. This account was set up to protect my pet from masters who put its life in danger, not a kind-hearted sap with liberationist values who overestimates what his slave is worth."

How the *hell* was giving the account to Peter turning on his master? That was what a slave *should* do, dammit! This was not fair. Master Vincent needed to take his complicated fucking agenda and shove it up his ass.

"Once again, my slave has been disrespectful, manipulating my kindnesses to its own advantage instead of honoring its master's will. You have twenty-four hours to remind it of what it is and where it belongs. Get a video of it begging forgiveness, and the target is off your back, and the backs of those you love."

Well, that explained the on camera apology. Neal had been wondering if he was going to turn up on SlaveTube or something. Hopefully that meant that the actual threat against Peter and Ms. El was over. If not, Neal would be perfectly happy to spend a little more time begging on camera. This *was* his fault, in a literal sense, even if he hadn't meant for it to happen. Neal deserved to beg for awhile.

"If that video is not sent to the account at Credit Suisse within twenty-four hours, then I will give my slave what I promised it—your dead body. Have a wonderful day, Agent Burke."

Oh yeah, a real wonderful day. Fuck you too, Adler.

Peter reached out and paused the laptop. "Okay, now we're on even ground here, officially," he said in a gruff voice. "So start talking."

Talk. He needed to talk. But what could he say? Neal *still* didn't really understand what was happening. At first he'd thought it had been Master Vincent serving up a cold dish, showing Peter what a traitor and bad slave Neal was just to get his revenge. But then the second part had been all threats against Peter… And somehow this related back to Neal giving Peter the bank account, though Neal couldn't even begin to imagine how, other than Peter thinking that Neal had somehow contacted Master Vincent and concocted this scheme.

Neal had a deep hole to dig himself out of here, and he didn't even have a damn shovel.

Neal dropped his head down into his hands, really wishing he could just go crawl into a cage somewhere and be safe. How was he supposed to, as Peter put it, 'talk' when it was like he was missing every other page of the script?

"I can't," Neal said finally, the words just sort of slipping out. "I can't talk, Master, because we're *not* on even ground here, okay? Not even close." His voice cracked as he lifted his head, meeting Peter's eyes. "I'm your slave. You will always be on higher ground than me. I will always be behind, Master. I know you expect me to keep up, but, dammit, I can't! Okay? I just can't!"

Peter's lips thinned a little, little wrinkles appearing around his eyes as he watched Neal, but he didn't say anything.

"You've probably figured out by now that I don't always like what I am. I spend a lot of time pretending to be a free man. But the thing is, I know I'm *not.*" Neal let out a whoosh of air. "Let me make one thing clear. I have never, for a second, denied that you're my better. I may be a catty son of a bitch, but in reality I know my place. Hell, I spend a lot of time agonizing over it, because while nature may have made me a thinker, nurture made me a slave, and deep down I'm still that little boy who wants to be a good slave. Every time I get down, I start moaning in my head about what a bad, terrible slave I am, as if anybody I know really gives a shit whether or not whether I qualify for the Miss American Slave pageant."

Peter gave a small huff of laughter and, encouraged, Neal continued. "I don't have a clue why you think I had anything to do with Master Vincent threatening you, I don't know what the threat has to do with the bank account I gave you, and I have no clue how Master Vincent knew to send you that video because I haven't seen him or spoken to him in years. I definitely don't want you dead, I promise you that. But just the fact that you think I organized some kind of hit on you or whatever shows that you believe I don't know my place when it comes to you, and that's not true."

Neal let his body slide off the sofa, turning on his knees until he was staring up at Peter from the floor. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore just how *right* this felt, being down here with his master way up there, his life totally in the other man's hands. It made him want to scream that he wasn't a toy, that he wasn't a nobody, but at the same time he felt himself harden ever so slightly between his legs. Goddamn motherfucking slave training. 

Good thing his sweatpants were loose. Neal couldn't imagine *anything* quite as humiliating as Master Peter realizing that being on the floor in front of him was turning Neal on. He might have plans to win his master over in the bedroom, but he was *not* ready to acknowledge just how much Peter made him feel like the fuckling he was trained to be.

"You're my master, but obviously I've done a shitty job of making that clear, because you don't feel like it. I'm not going to lie and pretend that I don't con and manipulate everyone, and that pretty much every move I make isn't calculated. The thing is, though, you're not one of my con jobs, Master. I may spend my days over analyzing every move I make, but all of that is going into being something that will please you, not trying to pull one over on you. Living with a master who doesn't want you is a shit life. Nobody is happy, not master, not slave. I just want you to want me. That's all I want."

Neal’s voice cracked a little on the last words. He hated to admit it, but they were the truth. He was sick of the games. At this point, he just wanted to let his old life go and get on with doing what he needed to do to survive in the now, as this possession of Peter Burke's, no matter how much it might shame him later when he was alone with his mind again.

Neal took a deep breath, choking down the last shards of his ego. He let the air out with a whoosh then dropped down until his mouth was brushing against the leather of Peter's wingtip shoes. It wasn't easy to do. He'd put a lot of effort into impressing this man during his little escapades with the law, and it hurt to undo all his work. Neal had always hated the way this man made him want to get on his knees and beg, and he'd done everything he could to prove he was better than that. However, the time had come to admit he wasn't better than that at all, that this is what he was made to do, and that this is what he'd be doing forever.

"Neal, stop that," Peter said, sounding rather horrified, but Neal ignored him, pressing his lips erotically against his shoe, like the worn leather and soft laces were his lovers.

Finally, Neal lifted his head enough to latch eyes with his master. "I'm not trying to find some way to escape you," he said softly, "and I am definitely not trying to kill you. I swear, I really am trying to make a life as your slave." He paused, laying another kiss on Peter's shoe. "And I will do anything it takes to prove that to you," he whispered, voice hoarse. "Anything at all."

Neal held his breath as Peter stared down at him intensely, eyes seeming to bore into his soul. Neal stared back, unable to look away, like their gazes were locked together. After what seemed like forever Peter finally turned his head, glancing over at his wife.

"El, honey, could you give us a few? I think Neal and I need to have a little talk on our own."


	17. Playing Master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter practices his Slave Interrogation Tactics, Neal tries to give Peter a new appreciation for Trainer Joey's work, and Peter confronts Neal about the condom in his hat.

Peter let the curtain fall back across the window as the Taurus pulled away from the curb. He had exactly one hour to talk to Neal before El swooped back in, and he'd been lucky to get that from her. Apparently she had decided that Peter and Neal were no longer allowed to communicate without a referee present, not that Peter could really blame her. 

He'd stuffed Neal in the damn torture box, for God's sake, over what he was now almost one hundred percent sure had been Vincent Adler amusing himself in his free time by fucking around with both their heads.

Peter was going to see that bastard in prison if it was the last thing he did.

Now it was time for Peter to do what he knew he had to—maybe had always known deep down—and he really didn't want to do it in front of El. He wasn't intimately familiar with slaves by any means, hell, he'd had no idea that they were instructed in hundreds of different postures or that your average family might very well have a cage designed for ultimate torture in their living rooms. Peter was in Vice Collar, though, and he had been taught a few things about communicating with slaves.

Peter really hadn't believed he would need to apply the principles he'd learned in Level One Slave Interrogation to life with Neal, but it was time to face facts. If he wanted their relationship to flourish, he needed to man up and accept the fact that there was a slave in his house. He'd been treating Neal like a guest in his home, an old friend or relative come to visit, when he should have been treating him like what he was: a new part of this household. Guests left, and Neal wasn't going to, not if Peter kept his promises.

If this partnership was going to have any chance at all, Peter had to make absolutely certain that Neal felt free to come to Peter when he was confused or afraid. The problem was, until he trusted Peter to protect rather than punish, he wasn't going to do that. Until Neal knew that Peter was a fair master, he was going to continue to hide what was he was really thinking in favor of telling Peter what he thought his master wanted to hear. Unless Peter stepped up and took at least some level of control, Neal would never know what kind of master Peter was, and their wires would always be crossed.

It was time to make it clear to Neal Caffrey that Peter was the man in charge, and that, as the man in charge, he was someone Neal could trust. A fair, honest master.

The truth was, Peter had been doing his best to avoid this. He and El kept their home slave free for a reason. He saw enough of slavery at work. His home was supposed to be a refuge, a place where he could forget about the terrible way many slaves were treated. But treating Neal like a friend wasn't going to work, because they weren't friends. Peter knew everything about Neal, yet he knew nothing at all. They had never sat down and watched a ball game together or gone for a drink at a bar. Maybe someday they could be friends, but for now they were one thing: master and slave. So it was time for Peter to be master to Neal's slave.

Slave interrogation tactic #1: Make it clear you are in control.

Peter took a deep breath and sat down in his recliner, doing his best to keep the nervousness he was feeling from showing on his face. Time to do this.

"Neal, come sit at my feet."

Okay, that had come out clearly, at least. Hopefully it had sounded at least relatively commanding. It was much easier with a slave you didn't know.

Neal glanced up from the bookshelf he'd been idly perusing, looking silently surprised. He didn't question Peter's authority, though—it would be hard to considering just a few minutes ago his lips had been making love to Peter's shoes, which had been totally freaky. And if he was being really, really honest… just the tiniest bit arousing.

Okay, not a good direction for his mind to go. Back to the issue at hand.

Neal silently made his way over to Peter, kneeling down at his feet without comment. Considering that Neal had a comment for just about everything, that was pretty much the equivalent of rolling over and showing his belly to the alpha dog.

Neal stared up at Peter for a moment, then slowly shifted his weight until he was in a precise looking position, arms held tightly behind his back. As big blue eyes stared up at him, Peter was reminded of that boy in the park so many years ago. Poor kid. And Neal actually believed he'd "turned out okay."

Ha. No one who went through that turned out "okay."

Peter wet his lips as he stared down at the handsome man kneeling tensely at his feet. There was so much potential there, so much talent, all of it wasted on a slave. If Neal had been free to do what he pleased, Peter could only imagine what kind of life he could have created. He could have been an artist, a craftsman, a businessman, a magician. Hell, he could have been a conman and a thief, forging bonds instead of chips and stealing modern art instead of slave paintings. At least now that he was with Peter, some of his amazing talent could be harnessed for good.

Time for tactic #2: Make it seem as if you know everything they are thinking.

"There's been a lot of miscommunication, boy," Peter said a little gruffly. "I know you agree that it has been very stressful and that it needs to stop."

Neal gave a small nod in response, and Peter smiled at him.

Tactic #3: Always reward good behavior.

"Who is your master, Neal? Is it you?"

Tactic #4: Enforce the fact that their decisions are not their own.

Neal took a deep breath and let it out slowly, squeezing his eyes shut as he did so. Being this wasn't easy for him. "No, Master," Neal finally whispered. "I am not my master, sir."

"So who is your master, Neal?" Peter asked as gently as he could. Diana could say what she wanted about Neal's need to be a slave or whatever—the Neal that Peter knew was in there, too, and all this slave stuff wasn't so cut and dry to him.

"You are, Master." There was a slight edge of bitterness, but Peter was pretty sure it wasn't directed at him. More like at the whole universe.

"And a slave does what their master tells them to do, is that right, Neal?" Peter questioned, purposely giving the words a condescending edge. At the same time he reached over, petting Neal's hair like he was the new Satchmo, and Neal tensed slightly. Back to good old #1: Make it clear you are in control.

"Yes, of course, Master," Neal replied roughly. "Whatever you say, sir." He shifted a little, a sudden look of discomfort coming over his face that was quickly wiped away. Of course, who wouldn't be uncomfortable after spending an hour sitting in a cage with something up their butt?

Speak of the devil… Peter let his eyes drift over to the cage still sitting on the other side of the room. "So, if I told you to go back in the box…" He paused, drawing out the moment. "…would you?" He didn't miss the way Neal's body tightened, shoulders nearly vibrating with tension.

Tactic #5: Remind them that are not invulnerable without the use of direct threat.

Neal was silent long enough for Peter to begin to wonder if he would answer at all, then, in a low voice, he said, "Yes, Master, I would go back in the box." A pause and then, in a softer, almost childlike voice. "Am I going back in the box, Master?"

Not a question Peter should answer right away, not if he followed his training. The deep fear in Neal's eyes made his stomach twist though, and what he really wanted to do was say, 'hell no, you're not' and wrap him in a big hug. However, the question had given him an opportunity to lead this conversation in the way he wanted it to go, so he'd better seize the opportunity while he had the chance.

"Did I say you could ask questions, Neal?" Peter said in a voice that made it very clear he did not approve.

Neal winced a little, and Peter could practically see his mind racing as he tried to figure out the best way to dig himself out of this hole. That was his Neal, alright. Always had to have some kind of plan to cover his ass.

"No, Master, you didn't say I could ask questions."

The words came out like a confession. Looked like the interrogation tactics were working.

"So *can* you ask questions, Neal?" Peter countered, wanting to drive this point home. Neal had been taught his entire life that any information he needed to know would be provided by his master. Questions were for free men, not slaves. Peter needed Neal to remember that right now, because it was all about to blow up in his face.

"No, Master, I cannot ask questions," Neal replied in an small voice, face turning pink as he sort of slumped over, head hanging down. It was hard for him, being reminded that his voice wasn't really his own, that if he asked a question, it would be as if no one ever heard it.

Peter ran his hand through Neal's hair and smiled at him again. Always reinforce good behavior.

Neal shifted, making that strange face again and Peter's brow furrowed a little as he scanned his slave's body, trying to figure out what was bothering him. Maybe his muscles were just sore from the box. God, Peter hated that damn box.

"You've spent a lot of your life like that, haven't you, Neal?" Peter said quietly. "Unable to ask questions, I mean."

A wrinkle appeared between Neal's eyes. He wasn't sure what the right answer was. There went his brain again, whirling madly.

"I suppose some people might say that, Master," Neal said slowly as he eyed Peter, obviously trying to discern from his master's body language whether or not this was what the man wanted to hear. Well, he was about to get his answer.

Tactic #6: Invade the slave's personal space to insure they understand that there is no "safe" zone.

Peter reached out suddenly and put his hands on either side of Neal's face, tipping his head up—a common motion made by masters when they were less than pleased. Neal sort of froze, a looking guilty. He knew what he'd done.

"It's a yes or no question, Neal," Peter said in a calm but firm voice. "Don't try and use wordplay to avoid answering my questions. It's rude, disrespectful, and an insult to my intelligence."

"I'm sorry, Master," Neal said, cheeks full out red now. "You're right, sir. I… I apologize." His voice was uneven and he sounded embarrassed. "I didn't mean to insult your intelligence, Master. And the answer is yes…I have spent a lot of my life unable to ask questions."

"Thank you for your apology, Neal." Peter said, gently releasing his face and sitting back in his chair.

Tactic #3, once more. Always reward good behavior. Respect was always a good reward. Slaves didn't get it very often.

Peter crossed his arms over his chest. "Tell me, how do you think that has affected you?"

Neal's brow furrowed. "I'm sorry, Master, but I don't understand the question."

"Not being able to ask questions," Peter explained. "How do you think that's affected you?"

Neal frowned deeply, then shook his head. "I don't have an answer to that, Master."

"Well, I'd think not being able to ask questions would make it difficult to know what's going on around you."

"Sometimes," Neal said slowly, looking unsure of himself. "I mean, it's not really my business to know what's going on if you don't want me to, Master."

And there was the heart of their problem.

"Neal," Peter said gently, "that might work if I knew what you were thinking, but I can't read your mind, boy." He sighed and leaned forward, reaching out and gently squeezing Neal's shoulders. "The way you think right now… It's not going to work for us. You were right when you stated that I didn't say you could ask questions. But you were wrong when you said that you couldn't. Because I want you to, okay?"

Neal stared up at him, looking a little lost, and Peter sighed. "What I'm trying to get at is that I *want* you to ask questions, buddy, even if I haven't given you direct permission to, okay? I know that slaves are not supposed to question things, but all of these miscommunications? They've happened because neither of us understands what the other one is thinking. I mean, did you even know what was happening today when I pulled you out of the office, Neal?"

"No, sir," Neal admitted, looking a little embarrassed. "I mean, at first I thought I did, but it became clear pretty quickly that I didn't."

"See, and I thought you did, because when I asked you if you'd done something, you said you had." Peter sighed. "I don't blame you, buddy. I made the assumption that you understood what you were admitting to because no free man would admit to something if he had no idea what was going on."

"I thought that was what you wanted to hear," Neal said softly, looking away.

"I know," Peter said quietly, reaching up to run his hand though Neal's hair again, stroking the man's cheek with his thumb. "You said what you thought I wanted to hear because you're a slave, not a free man, and I should have remembered that. I promise that I will try to in the future, but you have to help me out, too. You don't have to be a free man, Neal, but if you don't know what's going on, you need to ask. We're going to be working out in the field together. So far these miscommunications have only been personal, but we can't risk having them out on the job. So you are going to start asking when you don't understand something, or at the very least make it clear you're confused. Okay? I promise I will never get angry because you asked me a question. It's not speaking up that will get you into trouble, you understand me?"

"Yes, Master," Neal said, ducking his head. "I really am sorry, sir. I know I should have said something. I was being stupid."

Peter snorted. "You weren't the one dragging a guy out of a building by the back of his collar. I was being stupid, you were just making the best of the situation. And as for the box, no, you're not going back in the box, ever again."

Neal looked up at that, a doubtful yet somewhat hopeful look on his face. "Really?"

"Really," Peter said, grimacing. "Neal, honest to God, I thought it was just a cage. I had no idea there was that gag and that… ugh, I can't even say it."

"Anal insert, Master," Neal said, a little bit *too* helpfully, a small smirk on his face. Snarky bastard.

Peter wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, that. That box makes me sick. We are going to be putting all those pieces in the trash. The cage is for you when you want it. You can even have the key. You said you wanted one, so we got you one, but you get to decide when you go in it, okay?"

"Thank you, Master," Neal said softly. "I appreciate that." He made a face. "I seriously hate those boxes. Hell, I even hated designing them."

Peter's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "You helped design those things?"

Neal chuckled "Kennel Corp Punitive Cage System Design Team, in the house."

"Oh, you have to tell me about that," Peter said with a laugh, standing up and holding out his hand to help Neal. He was more than ready to finish up the serious side of this little chat.

"Well," Neal said with a tiny smirk as he took Peter's hand and climbed to his feet, "One time I came up with this *great* attachment involving a periscope, a wind chime, and a plastic banana. I was *amazed* when they didn't go for it…"

o o o

"…so then the organizer says to me, 'Oh, Mayor Jones, you were so right in your emails—your hair plugs are flawless! I would *swear* it's real hair!"

Laughter erupted from the kitchen, and El smiled to herself as she shut the front door behind her. Apparently the boys had survived their little talk.

Thank God.

"I still cannot believe you locked the mayor in his own slave cage!" Peter said, banging the table as he laughed.

"It took him three *weeks* to convince the boarding stable that he really was a free man," Neal replied, cracking up. "Oh, and by the way—the hair plugs were *not* flawless. His head looked like a giant pincushion."

More laughter. Aw, her boys were having fun now. El dropped her purse, making her way into the kitchen.

"Hello, gentlemen," she said, smiling at them. Neal stood up immediately, giving her an exaggerated bow.

"Welcome back, Ms. El. Here, I'll take that, m'am." He reached out, relieving her of the takeout bags she was carrying.

"Thank you, Neal," she said, giving his shoulder a pat before settling down in one of the seats at the table. "Honey," she said to Peter, "could you get the plates? Disturbingly long take out lines and high heeled shoes do not mix."

"I'll get them," Neal said quickly, opening the cabinet and pulling out two plates. He hesitated for a second, glancing over at Peter. "I can eat the leftovers, Master." It wasn't exactly a question, but you could tell he sort of meant it as one.

"Oh, I'm sure she got plenty of food, Neal," Peter said. He gave the slave a smile, but El could see the sadness in his eyes. "You can make yourself a plate."

"Thanks, Master," Neal replied in a slightly awkward tone, then quickly busied himself with opening the various fast food tubs.

"So," El whispered as surreptitiously as she could, leaning toward her husband. "How did it go?"

"Good," Peter replied in a low voice, watching Neal's slim figure as he fixed their plates. "It went good. I made it clear that if he's ever confused at all, he has permission to ask me."

"You think he will?" El asked worriedly, trying to keep her voice quiet enough that Neal couldn't hear. Not that Neal would acknowledge it if he could. "I do *not* want a repeat of today, Peter. Not *ever.*"

"You think I do?" Peter said, grimacing. "I'm still disgusted by myself. Hopefully he'll come around, but don't worry—I plan to be very careful from now on. It's my job to take care of him, not the other way around."

Which reminded her… Neal was such a handsome guy, with the features of a Disney prince and the body of a Calvin Klein model. There were probably a lot of people out there who would like a piece of him. And if they wanted it, what could he really do about it? "Peter, don't let me forget," she said softly, "I found something today that I need to show you."

Peter raised an eyebrow, but before he got the chance to question her, Neal was hovering over them, food in hand.

"Here you go, Ms. El," Neal said, setting down a rather artistically arranged plate in front of her. "And Master…"

El burst into laughter as Neal set down her husband's plate. Neal had vetoed the artistic arrangement for a big happy face formed out of meats on a background of rice.

"Oh, shut up," Peter muttered, though El could tell he was hiding a smile.

"Master told me about the time he fell asleep at his desk at the office," Neal said, smirking. "I still think it was Agent Hughes who did it."

Elizabeth laughed again. "Oh my God, he didn't even notice it until the next morning, can you believe that? And he brushed his teeth the night before! How do you *not* notice a smiley face drawn on your forehead in Sharpie when you're brushing your teeth?"

Neal grinned as he set his own plate on the table. There was noticeably less food on it than the others, but at least it was more than a single noodle or something ridiculous like that.

Instead of digging into his food, however, Neal began to shift around uncomfortably in his seat, chopsticks hovering over the plate.

"Are you sure this is okay?" he asked suddenly, letting his chopsticks drop as he began to stand. "Master, I can sit on the floor."

"No, Neal," Peter said, a little sharply. Then, in a softer voice, "There's a dog wandering around on the floor, Neal, and Satchmo's fat enough as it is. We don't need him getting your food. You'll sit at the table. Now eat your food, buddy."

El frowned, not particularly liking the implication of her husband's words—that the only reason Neal was sitting at the table was so Satch wouldn't get fat—but it must have been what Neal wanted to hear, because he went from so tense as a board to calm and relaxed in an instant. Huh. That was interesting.

"Of course, Master."

"So, Neal, did I hear something about a mayor in a cage?" El prompted, and Neal flashed her a smile.

"Ah yes. Who says that a convention on the timing of traffic lights in urban zones can't be a blast?"

o o o

Neal tapped his fingers on the bedspread as he idly studied the popcorn ceiling, his mind deep in thought.

Today had been… interesting, to say the least. A lot of crazy things had happened, some good, some bad, but the one Neal found most notable was the way Peter had been treating him since the whole bank account conspiracy thing had been cleared up.

For the past few days, Neal had felt like he was walking a tight rope, but tonight had been much easier. Peter hadn't left him hanging as much, explaining things in logical ways Neal could understand, like why a man could possibly want a slave at his table. Even better, the comments about Neal going back to prison if he sneezed wrong had stopped completely, and he hadn't said a single time that Neal deserved what he'd gotten.

Maybe, just maybe Peter had really meant what he'd said last night. It was something to contemplate, at least.

In the end, swallowing his pride and getting down on his knees in front of Peter had turned out pretty well. The truth was, it's what he should have done from the start, no matter how degrading or humiliating it felt. He'd put it off and put it off because he didn't want to acknowledge how small of a person Peter made him feel sometimes, and in the process he'd really made a mess of things.

Tonight, Neal really hadn't known what else to do. He'd been backed into a corner, and acting like the slave he was had been his only recourse. Even after all the so-called "leveling" of the ground they stood on, Neal still hadn't really understood what was going on, so there was no way he could have talked his way out of that mess. To be honest, he was surprised that Peter still wanted him around after all that had gone down, but he *was* happy.

A little too happy, sometimes. When Peter had ordered him to sit at his feet, Neal's lower half had decided to rise to the challenge, in all the wrong ways. Well, technically, in all the right ways since he was a fuckling. But it was still embarrassing. Master Vincent used to make fun of him for it, but there wasn't much Neal could do to stop it. When his body had been at its hormonal peak, his trainers had used that to their advantage to grind it into his head that when you were told to kneel, it was time for other parts to rise. And now that he'd started doing it around Peter, he doubted he'd be able to stop.

Damn those sex addict brainwashing bastards and their humiliating tactics. Because it really was humiliating. In situations like the one with hat stealer, where it came on fast and there was plenty of pain, he was fine. But when it came to dealing with his masters… Neal had little choice. Sure, if the sex turned out really painful, he'd lose the hard on, but otherwise… Even when his mind was crying, his body had a tendency to truck on like the good Sergeant Fuckling it was. 

He'd been laughed at a lot over the years, had men spit in his face and call him a whore or kick him in the nuts just to see if he'd still be able to keep it up. Sometimes he really hated this body. Sometimes he really hated it a lot. It really sucked to be trapped in something you didn't own.

What he needed to do now, though, was stop bitching about it in his head and figure out how to use this body to his advantage. Neal knew that for a fact now that he wanted to stay here—the pain he'd felt when he'd believed it was all over left no doubt to be had. So he was back to the original question: What could he do to make *sure* Peter would keep him in his home? 

With everything that had happened in the last three days, Neal was pretty sure he was teetering precariously on the edge. It had been drama after drama after drama—Neal wouldn't want *himself* after all that. Even if Peter kept his word and didn't send him back to the prison, he could always send him somewhere else to serve his time, and Neal didn't want to go.

The problem was, since the moment Neal had stepped out of the prison, they'd had personal issue after personal issue. Neal needed to find something that would truly convince Peter that he was worth all this effort. He needed to make everything easier for his master, and give the man a real reason to keep him in his home. Solving Vice Collar cases was all good, but he needed more. Neal needed to show Master the real perks of keeping a slave. And of all Neal's capabilities, there was one at which he was the shining star.

He might curse the sex addict brainwashers, but the things they had taught him to do did tend to come in handy. It was time to get Operation: Woo Master back on track. But where to start? Master was a damn hard man to read, and Neal wasn't sure how, exactly, he would want his slave to go about this. Secretly, he was sure—the man did have a wife. But when and where and how? What kind of things did Peter like? What turned him on? All things Neal needed to find out. Now, if he could just—

Neal's thoughts were interrupted by a creaking in the hall. His eyes went wide as the bedroom door slid silently open and his master slipped into the room, holding a finger up to his lips before shutting the door very softly behind him.

Huh. Maybe Neal wouldn't have to put so much effort into his little plan after all.

Peter moved over to the bed, sitting down on the edge as Neal pushed himself up on his elbows. The room was dark, with only the moon shining in from the window to light it, turning Peter into a dark, shadowy figure, like something that hid in your closet until you closed your eyes…

"Hello, Neal."

Neal swallowed hard, no longer quite as sure as he had been before about this whole 'wooing master' thing. He'd sort of expected that he'd be the one to decide the time, the one to come on to Peter. He guessed he'd sort of expected he'd be the one in control. It was a ridiculous idea, of course, to the point it startled him. What was wrong with him? *Peter* was the master. Peter was the one in charge, not him. Obviously Neal had spent a little too long with Mistress Kate.

Wait a second… When had the woman he loved gone from 'Mistress' to 'Mistress Kate?'

"Hello, Master," Neal replied in a soft voice, letting himself fall back down on his pillow rather than push himself into a sitting position. Master was in charge here, he should make it clear he knew that.

"You know I'm here to protect you, right?" Peter said quietly, reaching out and gently touching Neal's shoulder, running his fingers along the curve.

The touch made Neal want to shiver, and he was suddenly intimately aware of just how naked he was, dressed only in boxer-briefs, while his master sat beside him on the bed, fully clothed. That was how it went, most of the time. Naked for Master. It felt like a disadvantage, but it really shouldn't. 

Why wouldn't he be naked for Master? This body belonged to Master. Yes, Peter was almost twice his size and yes, Peter was stronger than him and yes, Peter could hold Neal down and he wouldn't be able to get away… But even if none of those things were true, Neal would still be helpless, would still be laying there with those fingers dancing across his shoulder.

"You do know that, right?" Peter whispered, like he was telling a secret. "That I'm here to protect you?"

"Of course, Master," Neal answered softly, doing his best to put on a brave face when what he really wanted to do was curl up in a ball and whimper.

Neal squeezed his eyes shut, hating himself. What had happened to the Neal of ten minutes ago, all about seducing this man? This was just what Peter did to him, what he'd always done to him. He just seemed so big, so strong, so… Master. No matter what happened, when he was around Peter he always felt like the little kid with the big man, so smart and powerful and strong, standing over him.

"I really am, Neal. I'm here to protect you," Peter's voice was louder, firmer, and Neal's heart began to pound.

"And… And I'm here to serve you, Master." Neal replied softly. He put a slight emphasis on the word 'serve,' but Peter didn't seem to notice, still staring at Neal with serious eyes, the moonlight seeping in through the window casting shadows across his face.

"You're a fuckling." Peter's voice had gone soft again, gentle, even, but Neal still tensed.

Was that a question? Neal wet his lips nervously and he had a sudden urge to cross his legs and pull his knees up to his chest to try and protect himself. What was wrong with him? His ass still ached from the hat stealer, but that was no excuse. Instead of crossing his legs, Neal forced himself to spread them just a little wider, to remind himself of what he was supposed to be doing.

"Yes, Master, I'm a fuckling," Neal said finally, the word tasting bad on his lips. There had been a reason that out of all the hundreds of papers he'd forged, he'd never put sexual entertainment as his product usage. But if Master wanted to hear him say it, he should sing it off the mountaintops. That's what a good slave would do, right?

"That has some bad connotations in society." It was hard to read Peter's expression in the low light, and Neal swallowed hard as those hands continued to caress his shoulder. How long until those fingers moved down his body, across his nipples, down his abdomen, down, down, down? How long until those hands pressed his legs apart and lifted them into the air, forcing them up and back until he was pinned helplessly to the bed? How long?

"Yes, sir, it does have some bad connotations," Neal agreed, eye flickering across Peter's face, trying his best to discern what his master wanted him to do. "Not undeservedly so." His stomach twisted. Definitely not undeservedly so. If his master only knew some of the things he'd done…

"Some people think…" Peter paused as he drew his hand away from Neal's shoulder and moved it up to his hair, his fingers tangling Neal's curls just like they had when Neal was on the floor, so far, far below his master, gazing up at the most powerful man in his world.

Neal felt himself begin to harden, and his cheeks burned in humiliation. He truly was a fuckling to the core.

"Some people think they can do whatever they want to a fuckling, and the fuckling won't even care, don't they?"

The truth of the words felt like a knife. Neal wanted to explain, to beg Peter to understand, to try and make his master see what it was really like. It was a yes or no question, though, and even if it hadn't been, Neal wouldn't have known what to say. How did you express what it was like, to be trapped inside a body that wasn't your own, unable to escape when bad things happened, unable to fight because it wasn't yours to fight for?

Neal didn't have a clue, so he just said, "Yes, Master," in a soft voice, a rush of shame washing over him as the hat stealer's face filled his mind. Neal purposely clenched his ass cheeks, the pain making him grimace. Good. He deserved to hurt. Stupid fuckling whore!

Suddenly Neal couldn't take it anymore, just laying there and waiting, waiting for Master to decide it was time. He sat up abruptly, wrapping his arms around Peter's neck and pressing their lips together. Peter's mouth was warm against Neal's, the faintest hint of coffee lingering on his lips, and Neal pressed his tongue between them.

For a moment it was perfect, their mouths hot and wet together, then suddenly strong hands were pressing Neal back down onto the bed, trapping Neal's arms by his sides as his master stared down at him, any hint of what he was feeling stolen by the shadows that masked his face.

The shadows couldn't hide the growing lump between his legs, though.

"Would you like to see what a thousand flavored condoms taught me, Master?" Neal whispered in a sultry tone. "Slip your cock into my mouth and I'll show you." Neal let his mouth fall open, eyes locked with Peter's.

For a long moment Peter did nothing, his hands still clutching Neal's arms as he just stared and stared and stared. A weird mix of fury and panic began to well up inside Neal as his master's held him locked to the bed, like maybe he was just going to hold him there forever.

God, why wouldn't he just do it? Get it fucking over with already? Neal just wanted to get it over with, dammit!

"Go on, put it in," Neal urged in a low, husky voice. A smile he didn't feel played on his lips. "I bet that once you do, you'll have a whole new appreciation for Trainer Joey."

Peter's eyes widened and then he rocked back, as if he'd been punched, releasing his hold on Neal and sort of stumbling off and away from the bed.

"Would you even fight?" Peter asked in a pained voice. "Would you even fight at all?"

What? "Of course not," Neal said urgently. "Of course not. You're my master."

Peter covered his face and shook his head. "No, no, I mean… If someone…" He dropped his hands, looking over at Neal. "Neal," he said, voice starting to sound hoarse, "I don't believe that about fucklings. I don't believe they don't care. I believe you care. I do! But if someone… if someone came up to you… Not me, not your master… Someone else. Would you fight? I know you don't like it—but would you fight, Neal?"

Exhaustion washed over Neal as the hat stealer appeared in his mind again and he began to flash through every touch, every thrust, every word… "No," he whispered, suddenly too tired to play any more games. "No, master. I wouldn't fight. I would just lay there."

Or stand there, depending on the circumstance. And then wear the damn hat like the whore he was.

"Why, Master?" he said, suddenly angry, as if it was Peter's fault that he was such a little bitch he couldn't even defend himself. "Have some interested friends? Gangbangers make the best buddies. Do you like to watch?" The words were out before Neal even finished thinking them, and he slapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes going wide.

Peter's eyes flashed. Oh, shit. Pissing off your master in the bedroom was never a good thing.

"I'm sorry," he said, a little desperately. He wanted to sit up, to reach for Peter, but Peter had been the one to put him down, to press him onto the bed, and not staying where he was put would probably only make his master angrier. "I didn't mean that, Master. I'm so sorry. Please, I am so, so sorry—"

"El found a condom in your hat, Neal," Peter interrupted in a low voice.

Neal blinked at the sudden change in topic, his brain fighting to catch up. Ms. El found a—Neal's eyes widened and he choked back a whimper. Oh, God.

"A *used* condom," Peter continued, a dangerous lilt to his tone. "What's that about, boy?"

Neal froze, heart beginning to race. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He'd forgotten about the condom. Damn that fucking hat stealer! Neal licked his lips, his mind racing as he tried to figure out what to say.

He could tell Peter the truth, but what if it tipped him over the edge? Master was already angry and Neal was already basically naked, helpless on the bed with his ass throbbing from a rough fucking followed by an hour with a ten inch dildo shoved up his hole. Add in irrefutable proof of what a whore Neal really was and you were looking at a very bad scenario.

There was one lesson that had been inexorably ground in Neal from when he was a little boy: Deep down, all men wanted one thing. Sex. No matter what they said or what they did to the contrary, what they really wanted was sex. There was no escaping that. But there were different *kinds* of sex, and how his master decided to have sex with this body would leak over into how Neal was treated all the time.

Neal wanted Peter to use this body as a source of pleasure and happiness, the kind of body you treated well, not as a dirty thing made for quick, brutal fucks. Just one full day in the office, however, and Neal had already been used by a man it was clear Peter hated. Somehow he didn't think Peter would see a slave like that as something to be handled with care. No, that kind of slave definitely fell under the heading of 'quick, brutal fuck.'

Neal couldn't tell Peter about the hat stealer. He couldn't risk it, not now, while he was still trying to make a place for himself here. Maybe later, once he was firmly entrenched in Peter's mind as a lover, not a whore, but not now. The only problem was, if he didn't tell the truth, then how was Neal supposed to explain a used condom in his *hat,* of all places? There was only one other plausible reason, though Neal knew it was ridiculous. Peter really didn't know much about slaves, though, and he might very well believe.

Neal squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see Peter's face when he heard the coming words. "I was touching myself," he said hoarsely, yet another wave of humiliation coming over him as he choked out the words. "I used the condom so it wouldn't get… messy." He opened his eyes a tiny bit, trying to catch a glimpse of how Peter was taking this. "Then… Then I thought I heard someone coming, so I hid it." The last words came out in a rush, sort of running together.

"In your hat," Peter said in a flat voice, crossing his arms over his chest and sort of glaring down at Neal. "You hid it in your hat."

Neal shifted uncomfortably, well aware of how absolutely insane that sounded. This had to be one of the worst lies he'd ever come up with. "Yeah," he said finally, voice choked. "I-I was in a hurry, you know? I-I'm sorry, Master." His cheeks felt like they were going to burst into flame. "I shouldn't have… been doing that."

Peter stared at him with an unreadable expression that sort of made Neal want to squirm. "So that's what happened, huh?" he said finally, voice so carefully emotionless that Neal couldn't even begin to guess what he was thinking.

"Yes, Master," Neal whispered, dropping his eyes. "That's what happened, sir."

There was a long silence then, after what seemed like forever, Peter let out a tired sigh. "Okay, Neal. Fine. But let me make this clear: If anyone tries to touch you in any way, you will come to me, do you understand? Come tell me, and I promise you won't get into any trouble. I swear it." He paused, voice dropping dangerously. "But if you *don't* come to me, and I find out something happened, I *will* punish you, Neal. Do you understand me?"

Neal nodded silently, still unable to meet his eyes.

"What did I say, Neal?" Neal could hear the frown in his voice.

"Come to you if anyone tries to touch me," Neal replied softly.

"Neal," Peter said, stepping up to bed and then kneeling down so his head was even with the pillow. "Neal, look at me."

Neal slowly turned his head to the side until he was looking Peter right in the eyes.

"I promise you that as long as you come to me, you will not get into *any* trouble." Peter reached out, hand brushing Neal's cheek. "And I will not think badly of you, not at all. In fact, I will be proud of you."

Proud of him. It would be nice to have a master who was proud of him. It had been a long time.

"I swear to you, Neal, that I will never be angry at you for coming to me. But," he added, still stroking Neal's cheek, "if you choose not to say anything, I will punish you. It is my job to protect you, but I cannot do that if you will not talk to me. You have to talk to me. And if promising to punish you is the *only* way to make you talk to me, I'll do it. I'll do it, to protect you from worse. I will punish you." His voice grew serious. "And not like last night, either. I will punish you for real. Do you believe me, Neal?"

He did. He really did. Peter had a look in his eyes that Neal hadn't seen in over four years, not since Peter had been hot on his trail. That look meant business. "Yes, Master," he whispered.

"Good," Peter murmured, giving him a smile. His fingers moved up to play with Neal's hair again and his voice grew soft, kind, even. "So now that we've got that cleared up… Do you have anything to tell me, buddy?"

Neal's eyes filled with tears. He should tell him. He really should. Peter had made that damn clear. And he'd said he wouldn't be mad, right? Except… Except it wouldn't be the first time a master had promised Neal something just to catch him in a lie. Besides, even if Peter wasn't angry, he'd still know, and Neal didn't want him to know. Not now, not yet, not until he had really found his place in this house.

Besides, this rule hadn't been in effect when it had actually happened, right? So, technically, Neal wasn't cheating if he didn't tell him about the hat stealer, right?

Neal locked eyes with Peter, forcing himself to smile. "No, Master. I don't have anything to tell you. Nothing at all."


	18. The Perfect Team

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which El and Neal have deep talks, Peter gets a look at Nick Halden's pedigree, and Curtis Hagen makes snide remarks about Neal's sexy butt.

Neal stared at himself in the mirror, not particularly liking what he saw. Oh, he looked as handsome as ever, and the bruises had finally faded away, leaving his skin smooth and clear again. There were no more dark circles under his eyes, the way there had been in prison, and his hair was shiny and clean.

It wasn't any one particular thing, but somehow he just looked old, which was not good for a slave. He was definitely beyond his prime as a fuckling, and his soul was old as hell, but he really didn't want to look it. If he lost his looks, what else did he have? Sure, he was smart, but he was a slave. All that intelligence had been wasted on him. If only he'd been born a free man. Ah, the things he could have done.

Neal's lip curled up as he gently set the evil hat on his head. He'd done his best to reshape it, but you could still tell it had been crushed if you really looked. That wasn't what bothered him. Neal really wasn't as anal retentive as some people thought. He could live with a slightly wrinkled hat. He just wasn't sure he could live with the humiliation of the hat stealer seeing him wear it.

What choice did he have, though? He'd made the decision not to tell Peter, and he couldn't renege on that now. Once again he faced a choice that was really no choice at all. Just another day in the life of a slave.

"Good morning, Neal."

Neal glanced over his shoulder, forcing a smile onto his face when he saw Ms. El standing in the doorway. "Good morning, Ms. El," he said, straightening his tie as he turned toward her, hoping he didn't really look as old and tired as the slave he saw in the mirror.

"You're up early today," Ms. El said in that way people did when they wanted to start a conversation and didn't know how.

Neal glanced outside the window, staring off into the darkness. He guessed he was up early, from a free man's perspective.

"My trainers always said a slave should be up before the birds begin to sing," Neal replied. "I was going to make breakfast."

"That's sweet of you," Ms. El said. She glanced around the room then down at her feet like there was some sort of invisible line there. "Neal… do you mind if I come in?"

Neal held back a snort. Did he mind if she came in? How could he mind if she came in? It was her room.

"Of course I don't mind, Ms. El," he replied, choosing to go with the flow. "It's your room."

"It's your room now, honey," she said as she gently shut the door behind her and perched on the edge of the small desk set opposite the bed.

"Not to argue with you, Ms. El, but slaves are not allowed to own property," Neal said, straightening his shirt cuffs just for something to do. "A car can't own a spare tire."

"Really?"

Neal looked up in surprise at Ms. El's shocked tone. Everyone knew slaves couldn't own property, didn't they?

"See, that's not what Pixar told me," Ms. El continued. She shook her head, feigning disbelief. "They lied to me? Pixar lied to me? And here all this time I thought the Taurus smiled at me in the mornings… It does talk, after all."

Neal couldn't help but laugh, dropping his eyes almost shyly to the ground. It was weird, talking to Peter's wife like this. "Sorry to burst your bubble, Ms. El. I know how you feel, though." He looked back up, smiling at her. "When I discovered that lions can't sing, I was devastated. Tell me, what's the point of having a pride if you can't do a good chorus line?"

Ms. El laughed, her smile like sunshine after a rainy day. She was really beautiful, Ms. El. She sort of reminded him of Mistress Kate, only a little older and a lot smarter. Neal wouldn't mind having a mistress like Ms. El.

Whoa, hold up there. Neal should *not* be thinking those kind of thoughts. Peter was his master, and Ms. El was Peter's wife. Which, legally, made her Neal's mistress, but in heart, Peter was the one who held Neal's life in his hands and he was definitely possessive when it came to his wife. Neal could understand why, though. She was a remarkable woman.

From the very beginning, Neal had been somewhat jealous of Peter's relationship with his wife. Of course, Neal could never have that kind of relationship with any woman—it was hard to be a husband when you weren't even a man—but there was something special about the two of them, something Neal knew deep down would be beyond his reach even if he wasn't a slave. They were simply beautiful together.

Neal hadn't missed the fact that a little cartoon he'd drawn of the two of them together and sent to Peter an eternity ago was hanging in the kitchen. Maybe he ought to draw them for real, a nice graphite sketch. Your everyday #2 pencils weren't the best medium, but they weren't the worst, either, and Neal could use paper out of the trash as a blending stick. He bet Peter would like that, a portrait of him and his wife.

Neal would really like to draw El alone. She had an interesting face, round and small featured yet unusually attractive. She was beautiful in a special way, not in a traditional way, which in Neal's opinion was the best kind of beauty there was. He was traditionally handsome, and sometimes he felt like something churned out of a factory that was only worth the sum of its pretty parts.

'He's so beautiful, he's so gorgeous, he's a work of art, his eyes are so piercing, his body is so hard, his lips are so full…' He'd had groups of men stand around his naked body and do nothing but list his physical virtues as if they were at a wine tasting. Actually, it had been a slave tasting, so that was more reality than metaphor, but it had still been a little humiliating. Not as much as being taken in a dirty closet—it was much better to be a fine wine than a janitor's mop—but it had made his heart ache a bit.

"So Peter told me he had a talk with you last night," El said in a somewhat careful tone, and Neal stiffened. For some reason he'd thought Peter wouldn't tell her about that, but then she *had* been the one to find the condom. His cheeks went a deep shade of red and he turned abruptly, fumbling through a drawer, pretending to search for… something… so he wouldn't have to look her in the eye.

"Really?" Neal said in what he hoped came out in a casual, nonchalant way. It was tough, since inside his heart was pounding. How much had Peter told her? Had he told her about the kiss? About Neal's offer? If so, what did that mean? That he wanted Neal? That he didn't want Neal? That the world had flipped upside down and pigs had learned to fly? Neal didn't have a clue.

"He did," El confirmed in a gentle voice. "He told me he made you promise to come to him if anything bad happened."

Neal relaxed minutely at the words, pulse slowing. If that was all he told her, maybe they were okay. Neal could work with that. Definitely. "Yeah… And I definitely will, Ms. El."

"Why are you wearing that hat, Neal?"

Neal sort of froze, then slowly turned until he was facing her, feeling a little ill. He forced his best smile onto his face and tried to look casual. "It's my favorite hat, Ms. El," he said, which wasn't 100% a lie. It *had* been his favorite hat, before the hat stealer dumped his cum all over it.

"Did you even wash it?" she questioned in that sweet voice of hers, and Neal winced at the fact they were even *having* this conversation. "It doesn't look like you washed it. We can have it dry cleaned if you want, Neal."

Neal swallowed hard, well aware that his cheeks were still on fire. Somehow he didn't think the hat stealer would like it if Neal tried to twist his orders like that. "No, Ms. El, that… that won't be necessary. It's fine."

El stood and, for a glorious moment, Neal thought that was it—the conversation was over, and he could go back to staring mournfully in the mirror at himself, whining silently about everything wrong with his sorry ass. Wouldn't that be nice.

Instead of leaving, however, she climbed up on the neatly made bed and leaned up against the fluffy blue decorative pillows, smiling at him. She shifted around like she was getting comfortable, then patted the bed beside her. "Come chat with me, Neal. Just us people with taste."

It might have been funny to hear Ms. El making jokes about Peter had Neal not been scared to death that the man himself might suddenly bound into the room and beat Neal to a pulp for having his wife in his bed.

Neal glanced nervously over at the door, wondering what he should do. This could not end well.

"I locked the door, Neal," El said gently, and Neal grimaced. That just made it worse. A lot worse. If Peter tried to get in and couldn't, he'd definitely assume the worst, and the second Neal stepped foot outside the door… Neal couldn't even imagine what would happen if Peter thought Neal was pleasuring his wife.

"I'm going to tell you a little secret, Neal," El said as she watched him with an inscrutable look on her face. "And I want you to listen hard, okay?"

Neal nodded slowly, since he didn't really have a choice. She *was* his mistress, and a free woman. It was his duty to do what she said.

"Peter may seem to be the man in charge, but in reality? I really run this house." El smiled at him, face still kind and gentle. "I have him trained up as well as Satchmo. He can come, he can sit, he can shake," she wagged her eyebrows in a comical way, "he can even *play.*"

Neal couldn't help but chuckle at that.

"Besides," El said softly, "Peter trusts me." She held out a hand to him. "You have nothing to worry about, Neal. Now come sit with me."

Neal let out his breath in a whoosh and moved toward the bed, crawling up the mattress and settling down beside El. She smiled at him and he smiled back, a little shakily.

Dear God let Peter be a deep sleeper.

"Neal, do you know what it means to be raped?" The odd question jolted him from his worries, and Neal frowned, brow furrowing. What kind of question was that?

"Of course I do, Ms. El," Neal said slowly, turning slightly to the side so he could look El in the face. "I'm pretty sure everybody knows what it means to be raped."

"Have you ever met someone who's been raped?" El prodded, and Neal dropped his eyes, hands clenching into fists.

"Yes, Ms. El," he said quietly, a wash of sadness coming over him. "Mistress Kate was raped once. At a party. She never even reported it to the police. He got away with it, and it scarred her forever. I can't believe he got away with it."

El reached out and took his hand, entangling their fingers as she gave it a gentle squeeze. "Anyone else, Neal? Do you know anyone else who has been raped?"

Where was this going?

"I don't think so, Ms. El," Neal said slowly, searching his brain. "I mean, I'm sure I've met people who have, but no one has ever told me so."

"What about you, Neal?" El asked, still speaking in that soft, gentle voice. "Have you ever been raped?"

Neal's stomach twisted. "No, Ms. El. You can't rape a slave." A wave of shame washed over him as the hat stealer's face filled his mind.

"So if someone forces you to have sex with them, it isn't rape, Neal?" El questioned, and Neal shook his head, not sure why she was pressing this. In his mind, the fact that slaves couldn't be raped was as much a reality as the fact that cars didn't dance and sing.

"No, m'am, it's not rape," Neal said firmly.

"Then what is it, Neal?" El asked, and Neal frowned, giving a small shrug.

"Intercourse? Sex? Whatever you want to call it. But it's not rape." He paused, thinking. "I guess you could call it a disappointment, because that's what happens. You're a disappointment to your master."

"So…" El said slowly, "When it happens to your mistress, it's rape, but when it happens to you, it's just… a disappointment." El voice was gentle, but the words still sparked a little anger in Neal. She shouldn't be comparing him and Mistress Kate like that.

"I'm sorry, Ms. El, but you can't compare what happened to Mistress Kate with what happened to me," Neal said sharply. "What happened to her was horrible. It affected her for the rest of her life. Years later, and she would still lie in my arms and cry." He swallowed hard, remembering her tears. "I was the only man she felt safe with, and that's because I'm not really a man."

He dropped his gaze, memories overwhelming him. "The pain in her eyes when she talked about it," he said in a distressed voice, "It broke my heart, Ms. El, and all I wanted to do was find that sick bastard and put him in his fucking place. Screw him being a free man, I'd rip his damn nuts off if I had the chance for hurting her!"

It was not the kind of thing that a good slave should say, but when it came to Mistress Kate, he didn't care. Neal squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the memories of her sad, scared gaze.

"It's not the same, Ms. El," Neal said softly, squeezing her hand

"Why not, Neal?" El replied in just as soft a tone. "Why isn't it the same?"

Neal looked up, face pained. "Because if it was, Ms. El, I wouldn't be here right now. I'd have hung myself in a closet years ago."

El's eyes widened a little, but other than that her face remained unchanged. Sweet, kind, caring El. "Why do you say that, Neal?" she asked, reaching out and brushing the side of his face.

Neal ducked his head, a sense of shame overwhelming him. "I'm thirty years old, Ms. El," he said, voice a little choked. "I'm a thirty year old fuckling. Do you even know what that means?"

El shook her head silently, and Neal's face grew even warmer. He looked up, meeting her big blue eyes with his own, wondering if she could see all the guilt and shame and fear through them. They did say the eyes were the window to the soul.

"It started when I was seven, Ms. El. I spent the next ten years as a pretty toy, being handed around. Then four years using my own body to con stupid men, followed by a year with Master Vincent. Finally, a respite, just my Mistress and I. For the first time in my life, I went weeks, then months at a time without anyone but the woman I loved touching me. After two years, she left me, and it started again. I was caught, then four years in prison. 

“For twenty-one years of my life, one or two men a week would use me, at the very least. Sometimes it could get into the dozens. If you averaged it all out, probably a man a day. Two men a day. Somewhere in there. My whole life.”

He rubbed at his face with his hand, trying to blink away the tears in his eyes as his smart mind worked the numbers much too fast.

"Eight thousand times, Ms. El," he said in a hoarse voice. "Conservatively. With hundreds and hundreds of men. So tell me, how can what happened to me, be *anything* like what happened to Mistress Kate? One time was all it took, and it nearly destroyed her. It ripped her apart, but I'm still here." He gave a bitter laugh that managed to morph into a choked sob. "They haven't broken me yet. So it can't be the same. I must want it in some way. If I didn't, then how am I still here?"

It was taking every ounce of self control El had not to completely break down in tears. But that wasn't what Neal needed.

Eight thousand times—conservatively. She'd never seen anything so disturbing as this slave sitting here, rattling off average abuse rates, calmly calculating how many times he'd been assaulted to try and prove that he couldn't be raped. Because if you'd been raped eight thousand times, obviously you wouldn't survive it.

El wouldn't have survived it, but somehow Neal had. Forget everything Peter respected Neal for. Forget his talents and his intelligence and his smile. Neal was the strongest man in the world. Admire him for that.

Except… it wasn't just Neal, was it? It was every slave out there with the words 'sexual entertainment' slapped on a piece of paper when they were a kid.

No wonder her hubby had decided to go into Vice Collar. The slave trade was absolutely disgusting.

"Neal," El said softly, slowly wrapping her arms around him, "that's not true, sweetie. If you didn't want it, then you didn't want it. There's no such thing as a secret lust that other people know about and you don't that means it's okay to hurt you. That's just an excuse abusers make."

Neal looked up, and she could see tears shining in his eyes. "Please don't tell Peter," he said in a hoarse voice, and El's eyebrows went up a little. That was the first time she'd heard Neal call her husband by his first name. "Please. I don't want him to know. I mean, I know he already knows." His face reddened. "I tried so hard to keep him from finding out what I am. To keep everybody from finding out. I know he knows, but please don't tell him anyway." Neal's voice was starting to sound desperate. "Don't tell him how many men. Don't tell him that. I don't want him to know about that."

El felt like her heart was going to break. She squeezed her eyes shut, taking a deep breath. "Neal," she whispered, "Peter would never think bad about you. None of this was your fault."

"Just please don't tell him," Neal said again, and a tear trickled down his face.

El gave a slow nod. "Okay, sweetie. I promise I won't tell him. It will be between us, okay?" She paused, biting her lip. "Neal, if I ask you something, and swear that it will be in total confidence, too, would you answer me?"

Neal let out a slow breath. "Wh-what's the question?"

From the look in his eyes, El had a feeling he already knew what the question was. "Did someone rape—" 

She cut off her sentence at the sudden tightening of his shoulders. Neal really, honestly didn't believe he'd been raped. He really, truly thought that something about him made it easier for him. Instead of acknowledging how incredibly strong he was, Neal believed that his feelings must be weak. "Yesterday did someone have sex with you without your permission, Neal?"

The nervous way he began to chew on his lip was answer enough, but El had to hear it.

"Neal, please," she said, trying to hold back the tears that were threatening to flow. "I swear to you that I will not betray your trust. It will be a secret between us."

"I-I lied to Master…" Another tear ran down Neal's cheek.

"I don't care," El said simply. "That's between you and him. This is between you and me. You may call him Master, but I'm your mistress too, Neal. You said that those two years with your mistress were the only times you weren't in pain like this. You must have trusted her. You can trust me too, Neal. Peter will not hear a single word from me. I will even deny it if he asks me straight out, which means something because I am not the type of woman who lies to her husband." She grabbed one of his hands in hers, squeezing. "You can trust me, Neal. I promise."

Neal sniffed then reached up with his free hand, slowly removing his hat and letting it drop to his lap. The inside was still stained and there was a musky scent to it that made El want to wrinkle her nose.

"Yes, Ms. El," he said in a voice that made it clear he felt like he was going to regret this. "Yesterday I let a man fuck me. A man that Master doesn't like." His voice caught and he wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I don't like him much, either. He was the one who put the condom in my hat."

El squeezed his hand again. "Thank you for confiding in me. Now, can I ask… Why are you still wearing the hat?" Was it some kind of self punishment? A reminder of what a bad slave he was or something crazy like that? El couldn't imagine why else he'd be wearing a semen stained hat to work.

Neal's eyes squeezed shut, a pained look on his face. "The man… He said… He said if I don't wear this hat, it will happen again."

El's breath caught as she stared in Neal in utter disbelief. This was a thousand times worse than any scenario she could have come up with. Not only had he been raped in the goddamn FBI building right under the nose of the man who was supposed to protect him, he was being blackmailed into a humiliating act of degradation with the promise that if he didn't do as he was told, it would all happen again.

Un-freaking-believeable.

El had a feeling her face looked like a tomato. She wanted to stand up, get in her car, scream all the way to that damn building, get up in Reese's face and let him know what kind of sick things were happening in his office, and then find the bastard who did this to Neal and rip his balls off. Maybe not in that order. Ball ripping should definitely come first. But she couldn't. There wasn't anything she could do at all, not if Neal wouldn't let her tell Peter anything. She couldn't break Neal's trust at this point in their relationship, not even for his own good. It could very well destroy anything they might have forever.

She was starting to better understand why her husband and Neal were always on different wavelengths, and she was beginning to recognize that it wasn't all Peter's fault. Yes, he'd been making assumptions about Neal that had thrown them off, but El wasn't so sure anymore if Peter's assumptions really mattered that much or not. 'Eight thousand times,' Neal had said, 'with hundreds of men.' And the only time he'd felt safe was with his mistress.

Peter was a man, and Neal was a victim of men. Even if Peter bared his soul to Neal, El doubted that would convince the slave that her husband's intentions are good. When you'd associated men with rape and humiliation and pain your entire life, that didn't change overnight. Neal probably wouldn't trust the intentions of Jesus Christ himself.

Did Neal even see the same person El did when he looked at Peter? From the very beginning Peter had been 'Master' and El had been 'Ms.' Only in the past few minutes, when she'd promised to keep his secret, had she suddenly become 'Mistress El.' Was it really because Neal saw Peter as the ultimate power figure, or was it simply because if he called her husband 'Mr. Peter' and he didn't like it, he might take Neal into the bathroom and rape him, while El was more likely to simply scold him?

El didn't know, but she did know one thing: Peter needed to know about what had happened so he could protect Neal! But she couldn't break his trust. She couldn't. If she did that, there wouldn't be anyone in this house he felt safe with.

"Neal," she said, her voice filled with pain, "please, please tell Peter."

"I can't," Neal said, shaking his head rapidly. "I lied to him, Mistress El. I can't. I can't. Please don't tell him," his voice cracked. "Please, Mistress El, don't tell him."

El wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a big hug. "I won't sweetie," she said softly. "I keep my promises. But I want you to make a promise to me."

Neal pulled back slightly, jaw tightening. "I have to wear the hat, Mistress El—"

"That's your choice, Neal," she said, waving the words away, no matter how sick they made her feel. "If that makes you feel safe, then you can wear the hat, though it really makes me sad to think about it." She had to pause then, dabbing at her eyes with the neckline of her sweater. "But I need you to promise me that if that man even speaks to you, you will tell me." She reached into her pocket, pulling out her cellphone and pressing it into Neal's hands. "Take this, and if he even looks in your direction, you call me. My business cell phone is listed in there. I will be there, Neal, as fast as I can, and I will help you, okay?"

Neal gave a slow nod as he stared down at the phone. Finally he looked up, a strange look in his eyes. "Y-you won't tell Master?"

El shook her head. "If I have to go up there, I will come up with whatever excuse I need to so that Peter doesn't find out. But I don't want you to wait until he has you cornered, Neal. If you think he's coming for you, walk in the other direction, as fast as you can, and call me, okay? Promise me you'll call me."

"I promise Mistress El," he said, voice cracking on the words.

She wrapped her arms around him, giving him another big hug. "Don't worry, Neal. I'll take care of you."

o o o

Dear Agent Burke,

I am writing to let you know how very much I enjoyed your video debut. Our slave's begging was fantastic. I particularly enjoyed listening to him howl that he was your slave, only your slave, and that's all that he was. Considering the size of his ego, it was an impressive display. Have you ever considered going into pornographic film? I think you would make a fantastic director. Tell our slave I look forward to seeing it beg in person once more.

Sincerely, Your Fellow Master, Vincent Adler

Peter stared at the email, anger boiling inside him. His hands clenched into fists. 'Our slave.' Ha! Damn that bastard. Who did he think he was, playing with Peter like this? Playing with *Neal* like this? Adler was walking a damn fine line. It was one thing to pull off some big business scandal, but it was another thing entirely to threaten his wife, frighten his slave, and make a fool out of him. Adler had officially made this personal.

"Here's the file, boss. Or I should say files, with an 's,'" Diana said, plopping a huge stack of papers on his desk. "Considering that neither Vice Collar nor White Collar was ever able to lay a finger on this guy, we sure do have a lot of stuff on him."

"Great," Peter muttered, shaking his head. "Just wonderful."

"I can help you go through it if you like."

Peter shook his head again. "No, thank you, though. I'll handle it. Keep working on the Dutchman case. We need to figure out who that guy is so we can bring him down."

"You mean Curtis Hagen?"

Peter looked up sharply. "Excuse me?"

Diana's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Wow, you really haven't heard? Caffrey found an electronic signature in the tracking device that matches back to a slave named James Sterling, working under the alias of Curtis Hagen. We’re working on getting a location right now."

Peter shook his head in disbelief. "I can't believe no one told me about this."

"Well, we sort of expected Caffrey to," Diana said slowly.

"Right," Peter muttered, taking a sip of his coffee. "Okay, Diana, thanks for the information. Get back to work on this Hagen guy, and I'll be down in a few, okay?"

"Sure thing, Boss," Diana said as she headed out the door.

Peter sighed, grabbing one of the files and flipping it open. Why the hell hadn't Neal told him about this? Peter would have thought he'd be bragging like crazy. Sure, yesterday had been a little… emotional… but they'd had a twenty minute ride in the car together this morning, and he could have mentioned it then instead of leaving Peter to feel like a fool at the office.

Peter guessed it was possible he hadn't thought about it. Neal had seemed a little preoccupied in the car this morning, staring out the window in silence. Come to think of it, El had been a bit off, too, snapping at him when he accidentally bumped into her in the kitchen. Were they still upset with him about yesterday? Peter supposed he deserved it if they were, but everything had seemed all fine and dandy when they'd gone to bed last night. Of course, once they were *in* bed, things had turned kind of rough again.

Neal wouldn't have told El about their kiss, would he? Peter's face still burned when he thought about it. After hearing El's shocking tale about a used condom in Neal's hat, of all places, Peter had gone into the bedroom trying to weasel out what had happened. It had been like pulling teeth, and all he'd gotten in the end was a story that smelled a lot like bullshit, which seriously worried him. Oh yeah, and he'd also gotten a kiss. With tongue.

It had seemed like a dream, or possibly a nightmare, when out of nowhere, Neal sat up and wrapped his arms around Peter's neck, kissing him deeply. Damn it had been hot as hell, Neal's soft lips pressing into his own, tongue flickering along the edges of Peter's mouth…

Of course, the second Peter had really processed what was going on, he'd pushed the slave away. It had all been downhill from there, with Neal offering to suck Peter's cock and a small, wicked little part of Peter thinking it didn't sound like such a bad offer. At least until Neal had mentioned how he'd gotten so good at blow jobs and the smooth, handsome conman had disappeared, leaving the ghost of a little boy in a Thomas the Tank Engine t-shirt behind.

'Would you like to see what a thousand flavored condoms taught me?'

If the words hadn't been so disturbing, they would have been hot. Okay, they were still hot, as proven by the way blood was beginning to flow between Peter's legs just thinking about them, but that didn't make them right.

Neal was his property, and touching him that way would just be wrong. Peter didn't care about El's weird theories or what that freakish little slave trainer had said. He was not in love with Neal Caffrey, and he wasn't about to use him like a cheap whore just because imagining that full, pink mouth whispering dirty words made him want to cum in his pants. Neal deserved better than that, so much better than that. Neal deserved someone who would love and cherish him.

Peter flipped idly through one of Adler's files, skipping past page after page of old bank transactions and phone records. He was just about to give up on the first file all together when he came across a photo paper-clipped to what looked like some sort of profile. Was that Neal?

The photo was a little blurry, like it had been shot from long range, but not so much you couldn't make out the people. It had been taken on the street outside of what looked like some kind of opera house. Vincent Adler was dressed in an expensive tux and Neal was on all fours by his feet, the leash attached to his collar dangling from Adler's hand. Peter grimaced. Who walked a slave into a theatre like a dog? Sick bastard.

What was *really* interesting, however, was the young woman draped in silk who was climbing out of the limousine. Kate Moreau. With Vincent Adler.

Peter's eyes narrowed as he studied the picture. About ten years ago, Neal's precious Mistress had appeared suddenly out of nowhere, or that's what it had seemed like to Vice Collar, anyway. He supposed it made sense that she was linked to Neal's time as Nick Halden considering that, at the time, Peter hadn't had any clue where James Bondage had gone. He'd just seemed to disappear for those few months, like he had never existed at all.

Peter pulled off the photo, staring down at the sheet before him. It wasn't actually a profile, he realized, it was a resume, and a rather sparse one at that. It seemed Kate had graduated high school then gone on to flunk out of college, as she listed forty credit hours in the Fine Arts but no degree. Previous experience: Waitress at Applebees, cashier at the Home Depot.

Adler definitely hadn't hired her for her secretarial skills.

Peter hm'd as he realized there was a second sheet clipped to the resume, eyes widening as he realized what it was.

It was Neal Caffrey's pedigree. Or, in this case, Nicholas Halden's pedigree.

See, this was what happened when departments didn't work together. All those months Vice Collar had been looking for leads on James Bondage, and the White Collar department had him in their sites the whole time—literally.

Peter studied the paper with interest, wondering if Neal had followed the example of Kate, counting on winning Adler over with his looks, or if he'd actually created a pedigree worth having.

Name: Nicholas Halden  
 Breeder: SlaveMart, Warehouse 72, New York City   
Nursemaid: Melissa Halden   
Date of Birth: 10/02/1986   
Training: Giovani's Studio

Gender: Male Height: 6'0"   
Hair Color: Brown   
Hair Type: Medium, Curly   
Eyes: Blue   
Shoe Size: 11  
 Build: Athletic   
Aesthetics: Highly Pleasing  
 Product Usage: Personal Assistance

Appearance, Description:   
Nicholas is an attractive, well built male of average size and above average facial features. His musculature is highly defined but not overwhelming, his face is oval, his features are symmetric, and would fit the description of traditionally handsome or beautiful with masculine features. He has a full head of dark brown hair of medium thickness and loose curl and blue eyes of average size with dark lashes. There is minimal scarring on the body and none on the neck as he was chipped inside his hair line. He is circumcised and has functioning genitalia of average size and appearance, approximately four inches when flaccid and six inches when erect. Testicles are intact and of normal size.

Schooling and Experience, Description:   
Nicholas is schooled in the Hundred Classic Positions and was trained at Giovani's Studio from age four to fifteen. He tests at 18% above average intelligence and is fluent in English, Spanish, and French. He is capable of both reading and writing in all three languages. It is possible that he may have an eidetic memory. First auctioned at sixteen, he now has first hand experience in secretarial work, research assistance, decoration, party planning, cooking, and pleasure. He has shown a proficiency for various forms of art including graphite pencil, colored pencils, water color, acrylic paint, oil paint, and sculpting.

Provenance:   
1986-1990 - SlaveMart, Warehouse 72  
 1990-2003 - Giovani's Studio   
2003 - Brewer & Sons Auction House   
2003-2004: Tina Gallencia   
2004-2006: Mitchell Bansworth   
2006-Present: Fieldstone Slave Servies

Wow. Neal definitely hadn't skimped on the papers. It was quite a step up from the Home Depot. Kate could really take a lesson from him. No wonder Adler had been fine with hiring a nobody for an assistant. His slave could handle it all. Of course, in the end, Neal was still the one on all fours wearing a leash while Kate climbed out of the limo with a flute of champagne in her hand.

So Kate and Adler were somehow intertwined… That was… interesting. Peter might have to go have another little talk with that Haversham fellow. He hadn't forgotten about that big hand on Kate's shoulder, flashing his ten year FBI ring. Having a man on the inside would explain how Adler had known about the deal with Neal only three days in. Peter shut the folder and slipped it into his desk, grabbing his coffee mug.

He could investigate later. Right now they had a ghost ship to catch.

o o o

"I really don't know about this, Neal," Peter said, grimacing a little as he stared at the shop. "I am really not comfortable in slave boutiques."

"This is where Hagen is working, Master," Neal said in an impatient voice, tapping his fingers on the car door as he stared at the shop, with its little pink awning and its metallic sign with the words 'Uptown Service' written in flowing script. Slaves were posed in its window like mannequins, and Neal couldn't help but feel sorry for the one wearing what had to be twelve inch heels. "You're the one who's not so sure that JSilver and Curtis Hagen are the same man."

"Well, it would help if you'd tell me your source," Peter said sourly. "It's a little difficult to get a warrant from a—and I quote—‘really helpful anonymous text message.'"

"Oh, please. You just don't want to have to look at fully grown slave-boys wearing sequined leggings and butterfly wings," Neal said, climbing out of the car with a smirk. "God, Master, you are such a prude."

Peter snorted and leaned across the seats, holding out something. "Hey, you forgot your hat."

Neal froze, doing his best to hide his grimace. Stupid fucking hat, causing him so much trouble. He licked his lips, hand slipping into his pocket, fingers brushing across the comforting surface of El's phone. "Just leave it," he mumbled, not meeting Peter's eyes as he slammed the door shut a little harder than intended.

Peter gave him an odd look, as he climbed out of the car, but Neal ignored it, striding up the sidewalk toward the shop quickly enough that his master had to jog to keep up.

Neal pushed through the front door, making the little bells ring, and glanced around, the hat forgotten in a rush of pure amusement. Oh, high fashion. Could you possibly get any weirder? Seriously, this place looked like Lady Gaga's closet had exploded inside it.

There were no more than fifteen slaves in the shop, each poised on a little platform, but there was plenty to look at. 'One of a kind' slaves were the new Maserati, the most beautiful boys and girls to be had, trussed up in out of this world costuming designed specifically for them.

Every corner of the shop seemed to sparkle, from the teenaged boy wearing a huge collar of peacock feathers and sequins to the young girl with intricate angel's wings tattooed from her shoulders all the way down her sides. One girl, maybe eighteen or nineteen, was wearing a flowing evening gown made of a see-through gauze that sparkled in the lights like stars. Another boy was wearing boots that laced up his entire leg, with some kind of animal pelt covering his genitalia.

Peter grimaced. "Dear God, it's like going to the circus. If I'd wanted to see Ripley's Believe It or Not, I'd have bought tickets."

"Oh, come on, Master," Neal said with a smirk. "You have to admit they're… creative."

"I guess," Peter replied, shaking his head. "I feel sorry for them, all trussed up like freaks."

"Hey, they're better off than the ones at SlaveMart," Neal said with a shrug. "You don't spend thirty thousand dollars on a one of a kind slave then let it starve."

"Yeah, I guess so," Peter said as he stepped close to a big, muscular boy with a shaved head, tribal designs tattooed on his face and a thick, round piercing in his nose, like he was a bull. "Is this dude wearing a tutu?"

"I think it's supposed to be a taffeta kilt," Neal said, cocking his head to study the slave in question. "I don't know why else it would be plaid, and he is wearing bag pipes."

"They're pink," Peter said flatly.

Neal raised an eyebrow. "Who said bag pipes can't be pink?" He smirked, eyeing the slave's strappy, knee high boots. "I like the shoes, though."

"Don't get any ideas," Peter said, giving Neal a look.

Neal chuckled. "Are you saying you don't want to see me in a sequined unitard, Master?"

Peter's eyes sort of widened and he began to cough. "Erm, um, well…"

The answer was not 'no.' Interesting. Neal hid a smile.

"I don't know why you ripped so many of these places off," Peter said, shaking his head. "I just don't see you putting on a cocktail dress made out of chainmail, Faberge eggs, and pink lace anytime soon."

"I would like to state that I completely deny the implication that I ever bypassed a Dublin Guard 4A alarm system, set the cameras on loop, overloaded a time lock safe, and drilled my way out of the building just to steal a crown made out of gold lollipops and diamond studded peppermint sticks. All in under twelve minutes." He smirked. "I mean, how could anyone do that, Master? It's *impossible.*"

Peter stared at him in disbelief. "That was *you*?"

Neal smirked. "Of course not, Master," he said in an overly innocent voice. "Like I said… It's impossible."

"God help me," Peter muttered, shaking his head. His eyes narrowed. "What the hell did you *do* with that crown? It was freaking ridiculous."

Neal snorted. "Cash for gold, baby. Cash for gold. God bless Jerry's Pawn Shop."

Peter rolled his eyes.

"Excuse me!" a shrill voice called out suddenly. From behind the counter a pudgy little woman with her hair done up in ridiculous ringlets and *way* too much makeup on appeared, a sour look on her face. "This boutique is by appointment only, as it says *clearly* on the door." She glared at Peter, putting her hands on her hips. "And slaves are *only* allowed in the store for commissioned fittings!"

"I'm sorry," Peter said, holding up his hands. "We'll just—"

"Beautiful madam," Neal cut in, stepping forward and giving the woman a graceful bow. "I hope you will forgive our ill manners entering your shop without appointment, but my Master was simply so taken by your amazing work that it left him breathless. I was certain he would collapse if we didn't get a closer look at your amazing..." Neal waved in the general direction of bag pipe boy, "...Highland slave over there."

The woman's cheeks went pink and her lashes fluttered. "He is a masterpiece, isn't he? I thought integrating peace signs into the tribal war markings was especially inspired."

"Oh, I agree. It is beautifully ironic, a dash of poetry every time you look him in the face."

"He is one of my favorites. His name is 'There Can Be Only One.'"

"That's his *name*?" Peter asked in disbelief, and Neal shot him a look.

She looked at him. "Do you like it? It was between that and 'Prince of the Universe.'"

"I think 'There Can Be Only One' is the perfect fit, m'am," Neal spoke up, moving toward her and taking her arm in his, directing her a few steps away as he lowered his voice. "My dear lady, I must confess the true reason I have brought my beloved master to your beautiful store." He paused, feigning sadness. "He is getting on in age and, in the last few months, well, let's just say he hasn't been able to… perform as he once did, if you know what I mean."

The woman's eyes widened as she glanced over at Peter. "Oh, dear," she whispered.

"This leaves only me to offer his wife the pleasures she seeks, and I do fear that she may very well pack me up and leave him. I do adore my master, though, and so I have talked him into giving his wife a special present, one that will remind her of the vigorous man he once was. You see, I was a present to the happy couple on their wedding day. I was presented dressed as the Swan Prince, and we have decided that there would surely be no better anniversary gift than for her to once again fly on my wings. Master wants to contract a designer, only the best for the slave pleasuring his lady, and I know you are truly the best. If you would only allow us a few minutes to look around? For my dear Master's marriage?"

"Of course," the woman breathed, clutching a hand to her chest. "Of course. I have an appointment in half an hour, but until then, please, feel free. This is so romantic."

"Thank you for your graciousness, my lady." He lifted up her hand, kissing it gently before moving back over to Peter.

"We've only got a few minutes," Neal said, and Peter narrowed his eyes.

"What did you say to her?"

Neal waved the words away, hiding his smirk. "Oh, I just mentioned that we might be looking for a commission piece. What can I say? I'm a real charmer. And you're just so *vigorous.*"

Peter's brow furrowed. "Excuse me?"

"Nothing, nothing at all," Neal said, moving over toward the peacock boy. The plaque in front of him read 'A Cocky Young Thing.' "Give me the scanner."

Peter reached into his pocket, pulling out the tracker checker. "Explain to me one more time why a boutique needs a man like Curtis Hagen working for them?"

Neal sighed. "Peter, it's not a WalMart. Somebody has to match the trackers in the slaves to the trackers embedded in their one of a kind clothing." He began to run his hands up and down the boy's body.

Peter winced. "Do you really have to feel him up like that?"

"No," Neal said sarcastically, "this is just what I do for fun after a hard day's work, Master." His finger caught on something just under the feather collar. The boy stayed stiff and unmoving, like a Buckingham palace guard, staring at nothing.

"That is so creepy," Peter muttered, making a face.

Neal lifted the scanner and it gave a little beep. "Bingo," he said, a smile breaking across his face. "I knew it! The trackers they're using in the clothing? They're leftovers from the last generation chips."

Peter's brow furrowed. "What?"

"Chips now are almost microscopic, but they've only been around for about ten years. Before that, chips were much bulkier. You can chip a slave anywhere now, but when I was young, to hide the scar you needed to do it under the hair. Not that it's a big scar, not even half an inch, but now they're practically injectable. When they came out with the microchips, the market for bigger hardware disappeared almost immediately, leaving millions of trackers stacked about in warehouses. Since they're registered as slave trackers, the only accepted data is slave information, so people buy them to put into things they own. That way if they're lost or stolen, they can be matched to the slave. Kind of like a luggage tag."

"Great," Peter said dryly. "First slaves are mannequins, now they're luggage."

"The point is, those older trackers? They're basically smaller versions of the trackers we're dealing with. I mean, the coding used is comparable." Neal flashed Peter a smile. "The skills Hagen is using here are the same skills our forger is using on the Macintosh tracker."

"Wow," Peter said. "Seems like Hagen is our guy."

"Yeah," Neal said, biting his lip. "Now if I could just get this to…" He pushed the button to activate the program Alec had sent him and a series of numbers started to run across the scanner's screen. A moment later they cleared and all that was left was the word JSilver, formed out of text. Neal let out a triumphant laugh. "Did I tell you or what?"

"It's fine work, isn't it?" came a sharp British voice, and Neal immediately stuck the scanner behind his back. A short, dark haired man was walking toward them, a scowl on his face.

"Curtis Hagen," Peter said under his breath.

"It's very impressive," Neal replied to the man with a nod. "It isn't easy to synchronize modern technology with those old trackers. Takes some serious skill."

Hagen smiled coldly. "Haven't I seen your face before?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at Neal. "On the telly, perhaps? Or, hm, I don't know… A Most Wanted poster on a website?"

Neal winced. Uh oh. Apparently his reputation preceded him. He supposed there was no point in lying. "Neal Caffrey. This is my master. You really are an artist with these things."

"Forgive me if I don't jump up and down to hear praise from a known slave art thief, especially one hanging around my store." He paused, smirking. "Excuse me. My mistress' store." His lip quirked up at the word 'mistress,' and Neal got the distinct feeling that this guy took orders from no one.

"I was never arrested for art theft," Neal countered.

"Ah, yes, but if I remember correctly, you were quite the renaissance criminal. In Britain, the government makes better use of their slaves, and I was once a top investigator at Interpol. I do remember a little ordeal involving a three million dollar crown that looked like it belonged in Willy Wonka's factory."

Peter shot Neal a look, and Neal just shrugged. "I still say it's impossible, Master."

"If you would excuse me, gentlemen," Hagen continued, reaching out and grabbing peacock boy's arm. "I need to take young Cocky here back to the dressing room. For a little… fitting." He sneered, and for the first time peacock boy's eyelashes fluttered, cheeks going ever so slightly red.

"Of course, we were just leaving," Peter said, and Neal shot him a look of disbelief. What the hell? They were going to *leave*? They had their proof! Why the hell wasn't Peter arresting this guy right here?

Maybe, after last night, Peter didn't want this case to succeed. The thought came out of nowhere, and Neal immediately struck it down as absurd. One thing Peter would *never* do was sabotage his work. But if it wasn't that, why wasn't he taking Hagen in?

"Master," Neal said in a distressed voice, "I—"

"Come on, Neal," Peter interrupted, grabbing his arm and tugging. Neal scowled deeply. He was not happy about this situation. Not happy at all.

"Farewell, gentlemen," Hagen said with a smirk. "I doubt I'll be seeing you around anytime soon." He turned his sneer on Peter. "Oh, and good luck with your little… problem. I'm sure it will be cleared up soon. An ass like that ponced up in a swan costume could very well put Viagra out of business."

o o o

"I still can't believe you didn't arrest him," Neal said in a sour voice as the Taurus pulled up to the FBI building.

"And I can't believe you told the woman in the shop that I can't get it up!" Peter snapped back, gripping the steering wheel tightly. Sometimes Neal drove him *insane.*

"It got us in, didn't it?" Neal replied, scowling.

Peter gave him a look. "And that was the *only* story you could come up with? There was *nothing* else? You *had* to say that I'm impotent?"

"Relax," Neal said snidely. "After last night, it's pretty clear that you're not."

"We're not talking about that, Caffrey," Peter said sharply, face going a little red.

"Fine," Neal replied, slumping down in his seat like a pouting child. "I still can't believe you let Hagen get away."

Peter sighed, turning off the car. "Neal, one little word on a tracker is not enough to put him away."

"Why not?" Neal demanded, glaring at Peter. "Seems good enough to me!" He paused, a suspicious look coming over his face. "You do believe me, don't you? Don't you?"

"Of course I do, Neal!" Peter said, shaking his head. "But there's a little thing called innocent until proven guilty."

"He's a fucking slave," Neal replied hotly, turning his body to better face Peter. "That little rule does *not* apply. Trust me, I should know."

Peter scowled. "Oh, don't act like you're some innocent. You didn't deserve where you ended up, but you did deserve to pay for your crimes. You broke the law, Neal! Free man or slave, there are consequences for breaking the law."

"Oh, and you think that's the only time I got sentenced without a jury?" Neal snapped. "How naive are you, Master? Take a look at my bare ass sometime. You can still see the whip marks, and the funny thing? I didn't even steal the rich bastard's goddamn safety razor! Oh, and you should have seen me the time I 'stole' hot water for a shower. My entire body was blistered for a month. It hurt just to be alive! And what about the time—" 

Neal cut off abruptly, dropping his face down into his hands and taking deep, long breaths. After a moment he lifted his head again, an unreadable expressing on his face. "I'm sorry, Master," he said in a carefully even voice. "I just… I need this case, Master." He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "I… I can't go back to that prison." His voice cracked on the last word.

Peter sighed, reaching out and squeezing Neal's shoulder. "I know, buddy," he said softly. "And we're going to get him, okay? I promise. But we have to do it the legal way. He may be a slave, but he was born in England, and the British take care of their own, no matter who they're sold to. All British slaves have the right to a fair trial. If we arrested him now, he'd be immediately expedited to the UK. The evidence would fall flat, and he'd go free. Well, relatively free. Hell, the Brits might even decide to buy him back from SlaveMart and reinstate him as a government slave to make up for false accusations and poor treatment. We need more than just a name on a tracker to get this guy. We need to catch him in the act. Do you understand?"

Neal nodded slowly, running a hand lightly through his hair. "Yeah," Neal said. "I understand, Master. I'm sorry… I'm just kind of emotional today." He flashed Peter a smile, but it fell flat. Real flat. "I'm good, though."

"Neal, I promise you," Peter said seriously, "we're gonna get this guy, okay? Your street smarts and my cop skills? We're the perfect team, buddy. The perfect team."

Neal's smile actually looked real this time, and his voice was only a little shaky as he said, "The perfect team, Master. The perfect team."


	19. Rainbows and Buttercups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Neal sticks something up his butt for a dinner with friends, Peter is shocked by the treatment of whipping boys, and Ian tells El she can just call him 'Slave.'

"Welcome home, boys," El said, flashing a big smile as they walked into the kitchen.

"Hey, hon," Peter replied as he tossed his jacket over the back of one of the table chairs, moving over to give his wife a kiss on the lips. "How was your day?"

"Oh, the same old, same old," she said sweetly. She paused, tapping her forehead like she'd just remembered something "There was one thing, though…" A wicked smile came over her face as she opened the refrigerator door, bending down to pull out a tray of colorful cupcakes.

Peter's eyes lit up and he clapped his hands together as he let out a whoop, not giving a damn that he probably looked like a little kid at the ice cream truck. "You went to Rainbows and Buttercups!" he said, making a bee line for the table. "I *love* Rainbows and Buttercups!"

Neal made a sound like he was about to choke, and when Peter glanced over at him his face was very carefully schooled. Not quite well enough to hide the laughter he trying to hold back, of course, but it was a good effort.

"Who doesn't love rainbows and buttercups?" Neal put in, his tone amazingly even, despite the smirk growing on his face. "And unicorns, too."

"Oh shut up," Peter said, rolling his eyes.

"It's a bakery," El explained with a chuckle of her own. "Rainbows and Buttercupcakes. They make cupcake cakes. They're very popular at weddings right now, and this woman's work is amazing." She gestured for Neal to come take a look and he obeyed, eyebrows shooting up as he eyed the tray of sweets.

"Wow," he said, hand hovering in the air over a cupcake topped with a giant monarch butterfly sipping at a pink fondant rose, its green leaves spreading out to either side. "They're beautiful."

There was a light Neal's his eyes that, had they been in the middle of a museum or in, say, a treasury vault, definitely would have sent off warning bells in Peter's head, but in the context of cupcakes he supposed it was alright.

"Look at the details," Neal murmured, bending over further to inspect a peacock whose long tail wrapped all the way around the blue paper cup holding the little cake. "They're quite astounding, especially on something of this size."

"And delicious," Peter added, this obviously being the most important thing, not that these artsy fartsy types would ever acknowledge it. He reached out, making to grab a smiling little frog with a jeweled crown on his head, when El slapped his hand away.

"Hey!" he said indignantly. "What was that for?"

"Those aren't all for you, mister," El replied in a berating tone, giving him a warning look. "We're going over to the Calloways' house for dinner tonight, so you're just going to have to wait."

The Calloways? Like Jack and Rhonda Calloway? He and El hadn't seen them for years, not since Rhonda left event planning for the exciting life of a stay at home mom. "Why are we going to the Calloways' house?" Peter questioned, a little confused.

"Hm?" El replied, eyebrows shooting up like this was a surprising question. "Oh, I just thought it would be nice to catch up with them." The words were *way* too casual, and Peter narrowed his eyes. Something was definitely going on here.

"El, we haven't seen them in—"

El took a pointed step back, out of Neal's line of sight, then made a cutting motion across her throat, mouthing the word 'later,' as her eyes flickered toward the slave.

Ah, okay. So whatever little plan was in place here, El didn't want Neal to know. Peter could handle that. If he could get rid of Neal and talk to El within the next five minutes, anyway. What in the world could she have to tell him about the Calloways that the newest member of their household couldn't hear? They didn't know the people well enough to have any sordid secrets to share.

Of course, considering the intensity with which Neal was staring at the cupcakes, El probably could have told Peter her little secret right then and the slave wouldn't have heard it. The cupcakes were definitely amazing, each one a little piece of art, but Neal looked absolutely enthralled. He was bent over at eye level now, scrutinizing every last detail of a comical looking pig with expansive gold wings.

"You like them?" El asked, putting a hand on his arm, and Neal flinched a little, then gave her a sheepish grin. Well, at least Peter wasn't the only one who made him jerk back like that.

"Oh, Mistress El, they're astounding," Neal said as he straightened up. "They're art. They really are."

"They should be for twenty bucks a pop," Peter said, shaking his head. "Thank God we get the party planner discount."

"Hm," Neal said, brow furrowing a little as he sort of cocked his head to the side, eyeing the tray again. "Is the frosting expensive?"

Peter frowned. "What?"

Neal looked up. "The frosting. Is it expensive?"

"No, not really," El said with a shrug. "I mean, fondant can get pricey if you have to buy a lot of colors, but it's really the craftsmanship that she charges for."

"Well," Neal said slowly, "if you really like them, Master… I can make you some."

The absolute confidence with which he said it made Peter's eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously?" he asked, though he knew better than to doubt. If there was one thing he'd learned while chasing Neal Caffrey, it was that the slave could do anything.

El apparently had yet to be enlightened, because she reached out, giving his shoulder a friendly pat. "It's actually a lot harder than it looks, Neal," she said with a smile. "Though if you would like to learn, I think that would be fantastic. It take a lot of work, though. I know it seems like building something out of Playdough, but it takes a lot of skill and practice."

"Of course, Mistress El," Neal said softly, taking a step back and dropping his head, shifting his hands behind his back. He stood there a moment, eyes flickering back and forth between El and the cupcakes, and Peter held back a sigh. Mouthy Neal drove him crazy, but good Neal was as annoying as hell, too. He just couldn't win.

"Something else you want to say, Neal?" Peter asked when it became obvious Neal wasn't going to speak up on his own. The words must have come out a little harsh, because Neal flinched. Great. Now he'd scared him again. Fantastic.

"Well," Neal said in a timid voice, glancing up at Peter, "the things is, I've frosted wedding cakes before. I've never done animals, but I've made tiger lilies out of fondant and cream, and once I did a five layer cake completely covered in climbing roses and English ivy." A small smile flitted across his face at the memory. "I made little stone benches for the top, then put a tiny chocolate fountain in the middle, like a garden. My favorite, though, was the time I did the Cinderella Castle from Disneyworld."

Neal smile grew, his eyes glazing over a little like he was seeing into the past. Wow, that was some smile. Peter hadn't seen him look so honest to goodness happy since this whole mess had started. Apparently Neal really liked making cakes.

"They wanted it five feet tall," Neal said, making Peter choke a little. A five foot cake? Seriously?

"I didn't sleep for days." Neal added, chuckling. "It didn't help that I'd never been to Disneyworld, and all I had to go off of were the pictures they gave me. They just handed them to me and were, like, 'here, go.' It was kind of difficult, because the thing has a ton of turrets. The hardest part, though, was trying to figure out how to make the fondant shine in a way that looked, well, magical, instead of like it had been doused in glitter. Finally I figured out that if you blend a tiny bit of edible glitter with vodka and paint it over metallic tone fondant, it will look like it's shining instead of sparkling. But then they couldn't find metallic fondant in the blue color I needed, so I had to mix it myself."

"Wait a second," El said, staring at Neal like he'd suddenly grown another head. "That cake… I remember that cake. Rachel Vanderbilt's twelfth birthday, right? I was called in at the last minute by a friend of mine when her partner got sick. That cake was absolutely *amazing.*"

Neal gave her an awkward sort of smile, shaking his head. "It was probably a different cake, Mistress El. I don't know who this was for, they didn't tell me. But I doubt it's the same cake." It was probably the first time Peter had ever heard Neal be humble. Usually, he was dying to take the credit, like with the whole lollipop crown at the slave shop thing. What was up with the sudden modesty?

"Neal, how many kids do you think get five foot tall castles for birthday cakes?" El questioned. "Besides, I remember wondering how the bakery made it shimmer like that. I'm serious, Neal—that was one of the most amazing cakes I have ever seen. The detail was *insane.* You could see the individual bricks! Oh, and the piping on the turrets… it looked like real gold! It was amazing. Absolutely amazing. I wanted to cry when they cut into the thing." She huffed in disbelief. "Who taught you how to do that?"

"Um, no one taught me, Mistress," Neal replied, looking uncomfortable, like he wasn't used to getting so many compliments. Which, considering he was a slave, he probably wasn't.

Maybe that was the problem. There had always been plenty of bragging, but Peter wasn't sure he'd ever heard someone compliment Neal's actual work. It was always more of a 'wow, this guy is an amazing criminal' thing than a, 'wow, this guy is a fantastic artist' thing.

"I actually figured it out on my own, Mistress El. I'm good at recreating things I see." Neal shot an embarrassed sort of glance at Peter, like he expected the man to start shouting at him about forging slave papers or whatever. "They didn't even buy me to frost cakes. I was the owner's maintenance slave, but one day an assistant baker called in sick and they told me to help. So I helped." He shrugged. "My master said I had a gift."

"Is there anything you're not good at?" Peter questioned. "I mean, seriously, is there *anything*?" Neal's face reddened a little.

"I'm sure there are plenty of things, Master," he said, letting out a short laugh. "Obviously I'm not nearly as good at hiding from the Feds as I thought I was."

Peter chuckled as well, then grew serious again. "For real, Neal… I don't know how you do it. Just eyeballing stuff like that. Why the hell did they list a boy like you as sexual entertainment?"

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Peter regretted them, but it was a little late to take them back. "Neal, I'm sorry, I—"

"It's okay, Master," Neal said quickly. He paused, licking his lips. "It's a fair question, considering I have an eidetic memory and a high IQ. For a slave, of course," he added hurriedly, as if there was a separate IQ test for slaves or some shit. "I… I was too smart for the Product Usage Exam."

Peter's brow furrowed. He was too smart? On one hand, Peter could believe it because Caffrey was damn smart, but on the other hand, how could you be too smart for an exam? "I don't understand."

Neal sighed, looking uncomfortable. Not that Peter could blame him. The topic was how he'd ended up on the cocksucker's aisle. Peter would be uncomfortable, too.

"I didn't know it then, but a lot of the test is trick questions," Neal said slowly. "Well, sort of. There are multiple answers, and the best one—the one a free man would choose—requires a lot of critical thinking, which is not what people want in slaves. So if you pick the best answer every time, you're considered as low quality as a slave who picked the worst answer every time. The best slaves pick the second best answers, and the mid level slaves choose the third best answer."

"Okay…" Peter said slowly, not sure he understood. "So you picked the right answers, and that made you 'low quality?' I still don't get it."

"Well," Neal said, brow furrowing in thought, "for example… Okay, say your master writes you a slave pass to go to the grocery store on the corner and buy a dozen large, brown eggs for the recipe he is currently in the middle of cooking. When you arrive, all the store has are large white eggs or small brown eggs. Do you, a) purchase the large, white eggs, b) purchase the small, brown eggs, c) return home to your master and request permission to visit another grocery, or d) purchase both the large white and small brown eggs?"

Wow, talk about random topics galore. "Is there actually a correct answer to that question?" Peter asked. "I mean, they're all okay, right?"

Neal gave him a look that clearly stated he thought Peter was an idiot. There was that cattiness, rearing its sassy head. "It's an aptitude test, Master, not an algebra exam," he said, throwing in a sigh for good measure, something Peter found strangely cute today, God help him. "The answers are supposed to tell you something about the slave, not give you a percentile score on a zero to one hundred scale." The 'duh' at the end was implied, but clear nonetheless, and Peter rolled his eyes.

"Right," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "So what's the best answer, then?"

"Technically, the best answer would be 'a,'" Neal replied, "because if you know anything about chickens then you're aware that the only difference between brown eggs and white eggs of the same size are the type of chicken they came from, making them comparable. Since your master is cooking right then, the best move would be to get the comparable eggs right away in case he needs them immediately. But that's not the answer they want."

"Then what do they want?" El asked, sounding intrigued. "I mean, that sounds like the logical choice to me. Why wouldn't they want that?"

Neal shrugged. "Choosing the 'best' answer means that you have to be knowledgable enough to know that brown and white eggs are comparable, even if your master isn't aware of it, and it means you have to consciously decide to make a choice for your master's 'own good,' if you will. You're disobeying him, in the literal sense, but you're only doing it because he's in the middle of cooking and you know he needs the eggs. AKA, disobeying him for his own good. But that's not what they want in a slave." Neal frowned. "See, it's not a slave's place to make a decision for their master's good. It's their job to do as their master asks, no more and no less."

"So what *is* the answer they want, then?" Peter asked, personally feeling that the entire question was a bunch of bull.

Neal shrugged again. There was a lot of shrugging involved in this conversation, which probably said something about how these ridiculous exams were set up.

"They want you to return to your master and ask him what to do," Neal explained. "Getting the small white eggs means your master might not have enough eggs and getting both kinds of eggs means you are spending more money than what you were allotted. Besides, they don't want slaves to make executive decisions at all, no matter what the circumstances. Unfortunately, I didn't realize that as a kid."

Peter shook his head in disbelief. "That is really ridiculous."

"It's what they want in a slave," Neal said with yet another shrug. "Even at five years old I thought too much, so they marked me down as sexual entertainment. A lot of people use their fucklings as general slaves, but technically they're just for sex, which involves no decision making whatsoever. You do exactly as you're told and your master's always there to oversee it. A no brainer, if you will."

Peter shook his head in disbelief. Sex involved no decision making at all? Wow. Talk about the perfect excuse to rape someone. God, some people were disgusting. Fucking SlaveMart and its messed up exams.

"Well, I think we can all agree that they were idiots for marking you down as… that," Peter said, more than ready to steer the conversation away from this somewhat disturbing topic. "But damn if I wouldn't love to see your cupcake skills."

Neal chuckled. "I can't guarantee they'll be all rainbows and buttercups, but…" He paused, giving Peter a sort of embarrassed half smile. "…if you save a little scrap of each kind of cake you like and each kind of frosting, I can probably get them pretty close. Not big pieces," Neal added hurriedly, suddenly looking worried, like he was afraid he'd made some giant faux pas. "Not a whole bite or anything, just enough to try and parse out the ingredient ratios. A few crumbled pieces of cake and a fingertip of icing should be enough. No more than that. I have a very sensitive palate."

Seriously? *Seriously*? Neal expected to make cupcakes for them without even taking his fair share? Peter let out a sigh. "Neal," he said, in what he hope sounded like an encouraging voice, "the cupcakes are for you, too, buddy."

Neal blinked, obviously surprised. "That… that's very kind of you," he said, words sounding a little strange, though Peter couldn't quite catch why. A pleased look slowly bloomed on his face. "I… appreciate your generosity, Master, but these are obviously very expensive and you like them very much. Please don't waste them on me."

Neal smiled in a boyish sort of way, totally different from his usual thousand watt grin, and for a moment it felt like he was really smiling for Peter, because he wanted to, and not just flashing the old Caffrey charm. Peter liked it. He liked it a lot. He really needed to make Neal smile like that more often.

"Just take a little Tupperware dish with you tonight and gather up some crumbs, Master. That will be enough." Neal met Peter's eyes for a moment before looking away almost shyly, smile still on his face.

It was almost painful, how the mere *idea* of being offered a damn cupcake practically made Neal swoon like a little girl. It was a fucking cupcake, for God's sake, not a pot of gold.

"You do know that you're coming with us tonight, Neal?" El said casually, and Peter watched in surprise as Neal's entire body suddenly went tight, arms practically snapping behind his back, jaw clenching up. What the hell? Obviously El hadn't missed the sudden change in temper, either, because she was looking at Neal oddly.

"What's wrong, Neal?" Peter asked, knowing it was probably useless to ask, if experience was any judge. But hey, they were supposed to try and do the communicating thing, right? Best that he went ahead and held up his end of the deal.

Neal looked up, feigning surprise, like he didn't know exactly what Peter was referring to. "What? Oh, nothing's wrong, Master. I just didn't realize you would be taking me with you." He paused. "May I ask a question about tonight, Mistress El?"

"Of course, sweetie," she replied, still looking confused.

"This family… Do they own slaves?"

Peter blinked. That was what Neal wanted to know? What did it matter?

"Actually," El said, once again using that overly casual tone that practically screamed she was up to something, "they do, Neal."

"Ah," he said, a little wrinkle appearing between his eyes. "And this will be a casual visit?"

"Yup," El said. "Nothing fancy tonight. A little get together with old friends."

Neal nodded slowly. "Okay… Well, in that case, may I have permission to go prepare? I should dress."

"What you're wearing is fine," Peter said, frowning when El glared at him.

"Honey," she said, sounding a little exasperated, "if he wants to change out of the suit, then let him. Don't pretend like you're not going to wear jeans."

"Oh, it's not that, Mistress," Neal said, probably saving Peter from another whack. "I like suits. But since Master will be wearing jeans, I should change. A slave shouldn't be better dressed than his master."

El gave a musical little laugh. "Honey, it doesn't matter what you wear—you're always better dressed than my hubby."

"Gee, thanks a lot," Peter said, hiding a smile as he feigned annoyance. It was true, after all. Whatever he was wearing, Neal always looked damn good. He'd even pulled off the orange scrubs, although the 'bruised and beaten' style really didn't go with his skin tone.

"That's not true, Master," Neal said, then paused, smirking a little. "Okay, it's kind of true, but I digress. May I go change?"

"Yeah, go ahead," Peter said, glad for the chance to have a little chat with El about this dinner. He pulled out a chair at the table and eyed the cupcakes as he sat down. Honestly, he didn't care if Neal could sculpt a perfect replica of the Statue of Liberty out of goddamn butter; if he could just get them to taste as good as Rainbows and Buttercups, Peter would be in heaven.

"Can't I have just one?" he asked, making El smile.

"Nope. Not until after dinner." She sat down in the seat across from him, pointedly pushing the cupcakes out of reach. "So… Dinner tonight."

"Yeah," Peter said slowly, raising an eyebrow. "You gonna tell me what all the," he mimicked the cutting motion she'd made, "is all about? We haven't seen Jack and Rhonda in, like, four years."

El sighed, suddenly looking tired. "The thing is, Peter… We don't understand Neal."

Okay… And that had what to do with dinner at the Calloways? "He's a hard nut to crack," Peter agreed with a nod, deciding to run with it. "You're right about that."

"Partly," El replied, "But I've also been thinking… we don't understand Neal, because we don't understand slavery."

Peter frowned. "I work in Vice Collar. I think I know a thing or two about slavery."

"About illegal slavery," El stressed, leaning forward on her elbows. "You can talk all night about trafficking and the black market and the twisted things you've seen people do. But you've never even been to SlaveMart, I practically have to force you to go visit friends if they own slaves, and you've never even considered us having a slave of our own." A troubled look came over her face, disturbed enough that Peter reached out, taking her hand.

"What's wrong, hon?" he questioned worriedly, and she gave him a tight smile.

"Neal and I had a little chat this morning, and I found out… some things… about him that…" She shook head head, looking upset. "Well, they seemed unbelievable to me."

"Like what?" Peter questioned, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know what constituted 'unbelievable' now that they'd found out what the whole prison gig was about.

"Oh, just stuff," El said cryptically, waving the words away. Peter had a feeling there was a little more to it than 'just stuff' but he didn't push it. "The specifics don't matter. The point is, the way he was talking… I couldn't empathize at all." She paused, frowning. "That didn't come out right. I mean, I could empathize in the sense that I felt sorry for him, but I couldn't get his thought process to make sense in my mind. There were these huge flaws in his logic, but it was as if he couldn't see them at all."

"Yeah, I've run into that," Peter said slowly. "I don't know how a guy as smart as Neal can be so dense about some things."

"Thing is, hon, I don't think it's Neal, specifically," El said, tugging at a lock of her hair. "I think it's slaves, Peter. All slaves. Which is why we need to learn more about slavery. How are we supposed to connect with him when we have no idea how he's been living his entire life? We've kind of made our own rules up as we go along, but Neal obviously finds them confusing. The whole eating at the table thing, for example. Considering how shocked and confused the mere concept makes him, I'm guessing that's not the norm. But what *is* the norm? I don't know, do you?"

Peter shook his head slowly. "No," he said. "I really don't. I mean, I could make some guesses, but I don't know for sure."

"Slavery is a culture, Peter," El said, squeezing his hand. "Whether we like it or not. And cultures are all about living up to the norm. There is a general consensus in the world on the proper way to treat a slave, and I have a feeling it's nothing like what we're doing. Slave etiquette, as Neal put it."

"A ridiculous etiquette," Peter cut in, really not happy with how this conversation was going. "An *abusive* etiquette."

El held up a hand. "I know, sweetie, and I'm not saying we should treat Neal the way you sometimes see people treat their slaves at the store or in the park, knocking them around and generally being cruel. I'm simply saying that if we understood the culture of slavery a little better, and the kind of expectations the general public has for slaves, then we might be able to get some insight into what's going on in Neal's head."

Peter frowned, tipping his chair back. His wife had a point. "It *would* be helpful to know a bit more about slaves so that Neal doesn't decide to take another cold shower because I forgot to say he could use hot water," he admitted.

"That's why I called the Calloways," El said. "I saw Rhonda last week at a wine tasting, and she said we could come over any time. I wasn't going to take her up on the offer, but today I realized it's a perfect opportunity to see how slaves are treated by most people and also to see how Neal interacts with those slaves."

"That's not a bad idea," Peter said. "Sort of an experiment, in a safe environment, with us right there in case something goes wrong. I like it." He paused, smiling at his wife. "You're a smart lady, Mrs. Burke."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Burke, El replied, smiling back at him. "Now, I'm going to go get ready, too. You stay away from those cupcakes, you hear?"

"M'am, yes, m'am," Peter said with a comical little salute as El walked out of the kitchen. He took one last longing look at the mouthwatering pastries, then stood. He'd better go get ready, too. El was not fond of arriving late to parties, and this was not one Peter wanted to be late for, either.

Neal Caffrey, a slave amongst slaves. This should be an interesting evening.

o o o

Neal stared into the mirror, tousling his hair with his towel one last time before shaking it out, squeezing it tight in his hands. His towel. *His* towel. As in, belonging to him. The idea still weirded him out, as did the fact that Peter had offered him a cupcake. Neal had seen the way the man was eyeing those cupcakes, and had figured El would be lucky to get a bite, much less him. It was strange, but kind of nice. Really nice, in fact.

Peter and El were good people.

Neal sighed as he studied himself in the mirror, hoping he looked okay. It was a big deal, taking your slave into another man's house, and it could end in a really shameful way if said slave didn't live up to expectations. Neal really didn't want to shame Peter and El.

He'd traded his usual suit for the closest thing Neal could find to slave wear, an unusually tight white t-shirt and a pair of black slacks. The neat crease in the front and careful tailoring of the trousers threw off the look a little bit, but it was the best he could do. Apparently Byron had not been fond of the stark polyester and spandex uniforms produced for slaves. A black t-shirt might have been better, but this was the only one Neal had that was tight, so he'd better go with it lest Peter's friends think he was trying to hide his body from them.

Neal had traded in his shiny dress shoes for a pair of flat black loafers with black socks, and he'd made sure to turn his collar around so that the little ring where you could hook a leash was in the front. He briefly considered slicking his hair back like usual, but then vetoed the idea. Somewhat messy hair would help balance out the outfit, hopefully making his obviously expensive slacks seem more appropriate. Now, for his face…

Neal pulled out a small, gold bag, unzipping it carefully. Inside, still in the wrapper, was a male makeup kit. It was obvious Byron had never used it, but then Byron hadn't been a fuckling. Neal had found it buried in a box full of old magazines at Madam June's, but it wasn't like makeup expired or anything.

Popping open a little gold tube, Neal inspected the lipstick within. It was a deep pink color, a little extreme for his taste, but if he applied it carefully and then wiped it off, it would stain his lips in a tasteful way.

He leaned forward, watching himself in the mirror as he applied the lipstick, then grabbed a tissue and wiped it off again. There. His lips were a warm pink color, not much different from how they were every day, just a shade or two darker and a little more plump looking.

Next was eyeshadow, which was the trickiest part, in Neal's opinion. Somehow he didn't think that androgyny was a kink of Peter's, but at the same time it would be rude to go into someone's home looking as though he hadn't even bothered to prepare himself. Very carefully, Neal applied a tiny bit of dark grey to the edges of his eyes, with a little sparkle of silver on the lids. You would have to look very close to see it at all, but from a distance it made his eyes look huge and so, so blue.

Neal's lashes were long and dark enough without mascara, so he zipped the kit back up, placing it carefully in a dresser drawer. Okay, he was officially prepared… mostly.

There was one more step for fucklings, but Neal really wasn't sure whether or not Peter would expect it of him. He guessed not, considering how naive his master seemed to be when it came to slaves, but if El had told their friends that Neal was a fuckling, then *they* would likely expect it. Peter and El were bringing him, and that implied he would be answering to the master of the house this evening. If he decided to take Peter's hospitality to the extreme, Neal would seriously regret skipping this step by the end of the night.

Fuck it. Better safe than sorry.

Neal went over to the closet, kneeling down and pulling out a black duffle bag. Inside was a colorful assortment of sex toys, some of which had melted into each other, as latex tended to do when you didn't wrap it up, but most of them were still functional. Neal pulled out a small, blue butt plug, inspecting it. It wasn't big enough to be dramatically uncomfortable, but it was big enough to make it easy for an average sized man to slip inside him once it was pulled out.

Trousers unzipped and tugged down to his knees, Neal pulled out a tube of lube from the bag and squirted it onto his fingers, leaning over and reaching behind him to work his fingers up his ass.

Neal hissed at the sudden burn, anal muscles spasming automatically, making the pain even worse. God almighty, was he sore. The damage from the prison was probably only half healed, and with hat stealer's rough fucking, his butt was pretty messed up. Neal quickly pushed it to the back of his mind, though, like a good fuckling.

Neal had heard stories from gay men about how pleasurable butt sex could be, but he was pretty sure a slave's anatomy was different in some way, because Neal could not possibly imagine getting pleasure from someone fucking his asshole. The closest Neal had ever come was a master in Toledo who had always wasted time working him open before slipping in, but even without the physical pain, Neal had still felt as sick to his stomach as he always did when it happened.

Biting his lip, Neal traded his fingers for the plug, closing his eyes and taking deep, even breaths as he pressed it in. Neal clenched his teeth, nostrils flaring in pain, then let out a sigh of relief as it went in and his asshole closed back around it, leaving the sphincter a little wider than usual.

There. Finished, thank God.

Man, being the hostess gift really sucked sometimes.

o o o

"You okay, Neal?" Peter asked for what had to be the tenth time as Neal climbed out of the car so slowly it was almost painful.

"Fine, Master," he replied in a tight voice, a really weird look on his face. "Fine, Master," he repeated, though Peter didn't like the hoarse tone.

"Are you sure? If you're feeling bad, then we can cancel," El said, looking a little worried herself.

"I'm fine, Mistress El," Neal said, flashing her a slightly strained smile. "Thank you, though."

"Of course, Neal," El said, reaching out and taking the slave by the arm. Neal's bicep flexed in response, which in turn made his pec twitch which then made his abdomen tighten, which led to his hip jutting, an erotic domino effect clearly visible through the astoundingly tight white t-shirt he was wearing. Actually 'white' was sort of a misnomer. The shirt had obviously been meant to wear as an undershirt, as it was basically transparent. Peter could clearly see the slave's nipples through it, not to mention each and every one of his carefully defined abs. Screw collared shirts and ties… Neal needed to wear skin tight, see-thru clothes more often.

Peter winced as his cock seconded that motion. Okay, definitely not the time to be thinking those thoughts. It was hard to avoid, however, as somehow Neal looked more beautiful than usual tonight. His hair was a mess of short curls, and his already big blue eyes looked enormous. His lips seemed pinker than usual, and twice as delicious, a concept that Peter's dick once again found interesting.

He really needed to stop staring at Neal.

Peter turned, walking up the steps toward their friends' house, silently scolding his lower half. Neal was his partner at the FBI, not his blow up doll. He needed to get thoughts like this out of his head. It was never going to happen, so what was the point of fantasizing? Well, other than the amazing orgasms, that is.

Peter raised his hand and knocked as El and Neal walked up the steps behind him. It wasn't more than a second before the door swung open, revealing a young man about sixteen or seventeen. No, not a young man, Peter realized as he took in the detailed angel wing tattooed across half of his face. A slave boy.

The slave was very attractive, with long, blonde hair pulled back in a loose bun, and bright blue eyes. If half his face hadn't been inked with feathers, Peter might have called him pretty. He was dressed all in black, wearing a tight, long sleeve shirt that looked as though it had been made out of Spandex, and slim fit pants. There was also a collar with spikes on it around his neck, and the overall look seemed more 'angsty goth kid' than 'slave' to Peter, but whatever.

"Welcome sir, m'am," the slave said in a soft voice, doing that creepy thing slaves did where they looked at your face but not in your eyes, like they were staring at your mouth or something. Peter knew it was supposed to be respectful, but it just made him feel like they were secret serial killers. The kid bowed then, stepping back so they could enter the house and shutting the door gently behind them.

"Let me take those for you, m'am," he said, holding his hands out for the cupcake tray El was toting, taking them from her and setting them down on a little table in the entrance way. "Master will be down in just a moment," the boy said, still doing the no eye contact thing, though Peter noticed that when the kid looked at Neal, it was right in the eyes. "He is having some difficulty with his son tonight."

"Oh yes," El said, "Tyler, right? How old is he now?"

"Master Tyler is four years old, Madam Burke," the slave replied, gesturing for them to follow him into the living room. "Please feel free to sit wherever you like. Slave, you may use the kneeling pad if you wish."

Peter winced at the use of 'slave' as a proper noun, but Neal didn't seem to notice, or maybe just didn't care. Peter raised his eyebrow as Neal moved to retrieve a flat pillow looking thing that Peter had assumed was a dog bed.

"Thank you," Neal replied in a voice as soft as Peter had ever heard it, not unlike the slave boy's.

"May I get you anything to drink?" the slave boy questioned. "Master has several different wines, beer, whiskey, soda, and bottled water."

"Actually, a drink would be fantastic, um… I'm sorry, I don't think I got your name," El said, smiling sweetly at the boy.

The kid's eyes widened slightly, and he looked at El a little strangely. "My master calls me Ian, m'am," he said, obviously uncomfortable. "But you don't need to remember my name. I'll answer to 'slave.'"

Oh, because it was such a chore remembering one person's name. Five minutes in and Peter was already feeling weirded out, especially looking at the enormous tattoo on the boy's face. That must have hurt like hell.

"Of course," El said, seeming a bit uneasy herself. "I'll take a glass of wine, if you have it. Cabernet sauvignon?"

The boy nodded in her direction, then turned his attention to Peter. "Sir?"

"Uh, I'll take a beer, thanks, Ian," Peter said, putting a little extra stress on the kid's name.

"Of course, sir," the boy said as he turned, heading out of the living room into what Peter guessed was the kitchen. By now, Neal was kneeling next to Peter on the pad thing he'd picked up.

"Neal," Peter said, palming his face, "will you please just sit on the damn furniture? It would make my life a lot more pleasant."

Neal shifted uncomfortably on the floor, turning his head to look at Peter, a nervous look on his face. "Master," he said in barely a whisper, glancing toward the door Ian had walked out of like maybe someone was hiding off to the side, listening in. "I don't mean to correct you or undermine your authority, but it would be a huge faux pas to sit on someone's couch. Slaves belong on the floor, not the furniture, and my sitting on their couch would be the equivalent of, I don't know… dumping your dinner in their lap because you didn't like how they cooked the beans."

Peter let out a huff of laughter at the image, then quickly sobered at the stressed look on Neal's face. "It's that big of a deal?" he questioned, not sure why the hell people would be so possessive of their couch seats.

"Yes, Master," Neal replied. "Why would you let a slave someplace that you wouldn't even let your dog?"

The comparison made Peter grimace, but El's gentle hand on his arm halted the sharp remark he was about to make concerning people who couldn't tell slaves from dogs.

"Thank you for letting us know, Neal," El said, shooting a warning look at Peter. "We're looking forward to this chance to learn a little more about how households with slaves are run. Aren't we, hon?"

Peter sighed, nodding. She was right, of course—she always was—but it was hard not to flinch at how coldly dehumanizing people were toward slaves. It definitely wasn't Neal's fault, though, and if Peter kept complaining, the slave would probably start taking it to heart, even though he wasn't the one Peter was annoyed with. Better to keep his trap shut than have another big misunderstanding with Neal.

Ian the Tattooed Slave walked back in, carrying a small tray with a beer, a glass of wine, and what looked like either a small bowl or a fat cup balanced on it.

"Mister Burke," the boy said, holding out the beer. "And Madam Burke…" El took the glass from him with a soft 'thank you, Ian.' "And, for your slave." He bent down, setting the cup/bowl thing, which Peter could now see was full of some sort of dull brown liquid, on the floor next to Neal. What the hell?

"I am really sorry for the wait, sir, m'am," Ian said. "Mistress is running late at the store, and Master is still with his son. They should be down any minute now."

"No problem, Ian," El said, giving him another big smile. "Thank you for the drinks."

"Of course, m'am," Ian said awkwardly. The words were polite, but the look in his eyes made it clear that he thought she was insane. "No need for thanks."

"Please tell me you're not supposed to lap at that bowl like a dog," Peter muttered as Ian headed back to the kitchen, and Neal let out a small huff of laughter. "No, Master," he said. "You drink it like this." He lifted it up with both hands, sipping at it. "It's a slave bowl."

"What *is* that stuff?" El questioned, frowning. "Chocolate milk?"

This time Neal laughed out loud, then quickly choked it down, shooting another nervous look toward the kitchen. Talk about on the edge.

"No, Mistress El. It's a protein powder. You can get it at SlaveMart in the food and supplements section. Most slaves drink it regularly, along with vitamin water. Packaged slave food fills the stomach but isn't really enough to be healthy. Hence the supplements."

"I see," El said, little wrinkles appearing around her mouth as she frowned. "Packaged slave food, huh? Sounds delicious."

Neal shrugged. "Better than nothing, Mistress El, and a lot of slaves go a long time with nothing."

Before either of them could respond to that beautiful comment, there was a loud, "Peter, how are you doing man?!"

Peter looked up, forcing himself to smile as Jack Calloway came at him, hand extended in greeting.

Peter stood, reaching out to give the man's hand a firm shake. "Doing good, Jack. Real good. How about you?"

"Fantastic," Jack replied, reaching out and giving El's hand a squeeze as well. "The kid started Little League last week. Playing tee ball, can you believe that? He's an athlete already." Jack shook his head, huffing. "And a little brat, too. Man, he's been throwing tantrums all day because he wants to play superheroes or hide and seek or American Idol or whatever stupid game he's into at that particular moment, and his little playmate has been busy helping Ian get dinner ready. Talk about spoiled." Jack wiped at his brow, looking tired. "I swear, he waits until Rhonda leaves the house, then it's officially scream time. He never does this when she's around."

El laughed. "Sounds like you have your hands full with that one."

"You know it," Jack agreed. He glanced down at Neal. "Is this the new slave you were telling me about?"

Elizabeth nodded. "Yup. This is Neal Caffrey."

Neal stood as if on cue, and Peter noticed that he made a little face as he did so, just like he had getting out of the car. Was he hurt? He'd sworn to Peter that he was fine after the whole Evil Box From Hell incident, but it wouldn't be the first time Neal had lied to him. He'd better keep an eye on his slave in case he needed to see a doctor.

"Nice," Jack said in an approving voice. "A good looker, definitely. A little old, but he's still got a few years left in him."

Peter laughed at that. "A little old? He's only thirty, Jack. Looks like my damn son."

"Only if you had him when you were fourteen, hon," El said, patting his arm with an amused smile.

"He's still not old," Peter said, noting that Neal's shoulders were unusually tight now.

"Well, considering that most slaves are put down by forty, maybe forty-five," Jack continued, "he's pretty over the hill. But hey, call me a bleeding heart liberal if you want, but I say age doesn't matter as long as they meet your needs. Putting down a great slave who is a little on the old side so you can replace him for a lousy one in his early teens? Pretty ridiculous if you ask me." He nodded at Neal. "Go help Ian in the kitchen. It's through there." He pointed, and Peter gaped at the man's audacity. What the hell? Who did he think he was, ordering Peter's slave around.

"Yes, of course, House Master," Neal said quickly, before Peter had a chance to respond. "Thank you, sir." He bowed his head in Jack's direction then shot Peter a look clearly stating he did not need rescuing. Great.

"What the hell?" Peter said through gritted teeth as Neal disappeared into the kitchen, about ready to punch the jerk off in the face for talking to Neal that way. "You always order other people's slaves around like that?"

Jack's eyes widened in surprise. "Whoa, hold up… Did I offend you somehow?" He held up his hands. "I'm sorry, Peter, I figured he was a gift. I mean, he's a slave and all."

"A gift?" Peter said in a disbelieving voice. "You thought we were going to *give* him to you?"

"Peter, calm down and let him explain," El murmured, tugging on Peter's sleeve in an attempt to make him step back.

Jack's brow furrowed. "What? No, of course not! Not forever, I mean. When people bring slaves to another person's house, it's normally as sort of a, you know, hostess gift or party favor or whatever. Like bringing a bottle of wine."

Like bringing a bottle of wine? Were you kidding him? Before Peter could tell Jack just what he thought of Neal being handed around like a bottle of wine, El spoke up.

"We did not know that, Jack," El said, a somewhat forced smile on her face. "Though obviously Neal did." She put special emphasis on 'Neal,' and Peter had a feeling that the words were meant for him. "You'll have to excuse our lack of knowledge. Neal is the first slave we've ever had in our house."

Jack gave her a tight smile, glancing nervously at Peter. "Yeah, well, I really am sorry if I offended you. Do you want me to go get him?"

"No," El said quickly, shooting Peter a look. "I'm sure he'll be fine in the kitchen. With the other *slaves.*" She gave him another look, then tugged on his sleeve again.

"What she said," Peter replied tightly as he sat down on the couch, still not happy with the idea of Jackass Calloway ordering Neal around. What if he tried something, and Neal thought Peter had given the jerk permission? He would have to keep a careful eye on the two of them.

Jack gave him an embarrassed looking smile. "Okay, well, I—"

"Master, I broughtses your drink."

Jack turned as a little boy wearing a pair of black, spandex shorts and a tight t-shirt walked into the room, clutching a large shot glass between his tiny hands. He looked like a little mini-Ian, minus the facial tattoo and long hair. Oh, and he had a bright pink stuffed dinosaur tucked into the waist band of his shorts, a big smile sewn on it that matched the one on the boy's face. The toy was really small, like maybe it had come out of a Happy Meal, but Peter couldn't help but be amused by the way it looked riding along in the top of the boy's tight little shorts.

Jack sighed loudly, obviously annoyed. "Toby," he said sharply, "how many times to I have to tell you? Do *not* interrupt when Master is speaking!"

The boy's big smile disappeared, his shoulders hunching over. "I'm sorry, Mas—"

"Just bring me the drink, boy," Jack said in an impatient voice, holding out his hand. The little boy bit his lower lip and shuffled over toward Jack, holding the drink out in offering. Jack took it, then reached down suddenly and pulled the little dinosaur from the boy's shorts, waving it in the air.

"And just what do you think you're doing with this?" Jack said in a low voice. "What have I told you about Mr. T-Rex?" He paused, and when the kid didn't answer he said, "Well?"

"Master said th-that he's not mine, and I can't carry him around," the boy said, sounding miserable, his little face wrinkling up in sadness. "But sir, Master Tyler says Mr. T-Rex misses me when he's not with me."

"Of course he does," Jack said with a sigh, shaking his head. "That's my son for you. You know what? I am sick of this. Mr. T-Rex is going in the trash."

The little boy's eyes grew huge, tears welling up in them. "No, please, no, Master!"

Jack ignored him completely, taking a sip of his drink before setting it down on the coffee table, along with Mr. T-Rex. "You listen here, boy—"

"Hey, Toby, come play truck stop with me!" Another little kid, about the same age as the slave boy, bounded down the steps with a big smile on his face. Peter guessed this must be the son since he was wearing cut off jean shorts, a Monsters Inc. t-shirt, and a Superman cape instead of tight black Spandex.

Jack sighed, shaking his head. "Tyler, I've already told you, Toby can't play truck stop right now. We have guests and he's helping Ian serve."

"But I wanna play truck stop!" Tyler shouted, stamping his foot on the floor and waving his arms in the air for emphasis.

"I said no, son," Jack said in a warning tone. "If you're going to throw tantrums, then you need to go to your room."

"Noooo," Tyler said, face going red. "I wanna play truck stop! Toby *said* he'd play truck stop with me! He's gotta fill up my truck so I can deliver the bunnies to the circus!"

"That's it," Jack said shortly. "I have had enough of you, young man. Toby, come here. You're in trouble now, Tyler."

Toby sort of crept up toward Jack, his face wrinkled up like he was gonna cry. In one swift movement, Jack scooped him up around the waist, balancing him on his hip.

"If you'll excuse me," he said to Peter and El, "I'll be right back." He looked over at his son. "Tyler, come on."

"No, don't!" Tyler cried out, a tear running down his face. "Don't! I'm sorry, daddy! I'm sorry! Please don't!"

Toby just buried his face in Jack's shoulder, making little whining noises.

"Come on, Tyler," Jack repeated in a low voice as he headed into the hallway. Tyler finally obeyed, albeit still sobbing, and they disappeared into the hallway, leaving a very confused Peter behind.

Apparently El was lost, too, because she just shrugged at him when he glanced her way.

That was when the screaming started.

"Dear God," Peter said, standing abruptly. "What the hell is he doing to that poor kid?" He moved toward the hallway, but El grabbed his arm.

"Peter, there's nothing you can do," she said, though Peter could tell it pained her to say it. He jerked his arm away, scowling.

"We'll see about that," he said, striding across the room. He stepped into the hallway, following the sound of screaming to the last door on the left. It was open, and Peter glanced in, eyes widening at what he saw.

Jack was sitting on the bed with Toby laying across his lap, shorts tugged down to reveal his pink bottom. Jack's hand was raised to spank, but it wasn't Toby who was screaming like he was dying. No, Tyler won that award, sitting on the floor, head in his hands as he rocked back and forth, screeching at the top of his lungs.

"Tyler, stop that!" Jack said, giving Toby's bottom a light slap. "You got yourself into this by being a bad boy. Now open your eyes and watch."

Tyler's head rose up and the screaming died down as he met his dad's eyes, tears and snot running down his little face. "I'm sorry, daddy," he whined, and Jack let out a sigh.

"Alright," he said, tugging up Toby's shorts and hefting him back up onto his hip. Toby buried his face in Jack's shoulder again, his little hands gripping the man's polo shirt like it was a lifeline. "But next time you remember what happens when daddy tells you over and over to be nice and you still throw a tantrum, okay?"

"Yes, daddy," Tyler said, sounding miserable. He wiped his nose with the hem of his shirt.

"And as for you," Jack said, lightly patting Toby on the back. "We're going to have a little talk about Mr. T-Rex later tonight, okay? He's not yours, Toby, and you need to remember that. In fact, I think it would be best if you took Mr. T-Rex out to the trash yourself."

Toby made a whimpering sound, lifting his face up to stare at Jack. "I love Mr. T-Rex, Master."

"I know, Toby," Jack said in a patient voice, "but there's only one thing you're supposed to love, and that's your master." He stood up, raising an eyebrow as he noticed Peter hovering in the doorway.

"Oh, hey, sorry about that," Jack said, shaking his head as he stepped out of the bedroom. "Kids will drive you nuts, I swear."

"Why the hell did you do that?" Peter asked in a shocked voice as he followed Jack down the hall, having zero clue how to process all this.

Jack made a sound of amusement. "Because Tyler's been a brat all day long—this was his fifth tantrum—and I knew a spanking was the only way it was going to stop. Relax, Burke, I don't abuse my kid or anything. If you'd been here this morning when he threw a bowl of Apple Jacks in my face, you'd be at your wits end, too."

Peter huffed in disbelief. "I wasn't talking about the spanking, Jack! Go ahead, spank your kids. My mom spanked me. What I don't get is why the hell you spanked Toby for something Tyler did!"

"What happened?" El asked as they stepped back into the living room, looking worried. "What was all the screaming?"

"Oh, it was Tyler," Jack said, rolling his eyes. "He throws an absolute fit if you lay a hand on his favorite toy. Which is the point, of course." He glanced back over at Peter. "And to answer your question, he's a whipping boy, man. It's what he's for." Jack set Toby down gently on the floor. "You get back to the kitchen now, boy," he said sternly, ruffling the kid's hair with his hand to lighten the tone, and Toby nodded vigorously.

"Yes, sir," he said, sort of dashing off. Not that Peter could blame him.

"You mean a he's companion slave," El said, stressing the word 'companion.'

Jack nodded. "Yeah, yeah, whatever SlaveMart is calling them these days." He picked his drink up off the coffee table, sipping at the amber liquid.

"Do you really think you should be hitting a child for something he didn't do?" Peter asked stiffly, and Jack sighed.

"Peter, I hate to be rude, but you must be more naive than Elizabeth said. It's not as if I whip the boy. Just so you know, I don't believe in whippings, no matter what the trainers say. A little spanking is one thing, but ripping the skin off a kid's back because they had a tantrum? That's wrong. Dr. Phil can blabber on all he wants about the special psychology of slaves, but I am not going to take a coat hanger to a four year old's back."

"Wait," El said, obviously shocked, "so most owners *literally* whip their child slaves?"

Jack looked at her with mild surprise. "Of course they do. Hell, I get all kinds of shit because I don't. Again with the bleeding heart liberal thing. PTA parents are always talking behind my back, saying it's bad parenting to treat the whipping boy like that, but I can’t even whip Ian, and he's full grown."

Full grown? The kid couldn't be a day over seventeen.

"So what do you do when Ian is bad?" El asked, and though her words came out friendly enough, Peter could tell from her body language that she wasn't happy.

"Hm? Oh, the usual. Put him on slave rations, lock him in his cage, maybe give him a few slaps. Nothing hardcore. He's a good boy, especially considering where he came from." Jack shook his head, a look of pity coming over him. "We adopted him from the rescue downtown. He was born in some kind of brothel and rented out to freakish perverts his whole life. We got him when he was thirteen, and it was over a year before I could touch him without him flinching away, and another year before I could use him without him whimpering like a sad puppy. Three years and he's just now started to accept that my wife and I don't get our rocks off by torturing slaves."

"Use him?" Peter said, unable to believe he was having this conversation. Did normal people really talk about their fucklings like this? "And by 'use him' you mean…"

Jack frowned. "He *is* a sex slave, Peter. And a good boy now, too. Took a lot of rehab, though. There are some real sickos out there. Of course, you know that, working at Vice Collar."

"Yeah, I do," Peter said shortly, feeling like he was in the company of one right now. It was one thing to keep a sex slave, but to know for a fact that your slave has been tortured and still make him have sex with you? It was wrong. Flat out wrong.

"Ian," Jack called out, turning toward the kitchen. "Come in here, boy."

Ian appeared almost instantly, like he'd been waiting for the call, and made his way toward them, eyes politely lowered.

"How can I help you, Master?" he asked in that ever-soft voice.

"Ian, I want you to meet Agent Peter Burke. He works for the Feds in Vice Collar. Can you believe that?"

The boy's blue eyes flickered up, then back down again, smiling politely. "I'm sorry, Master," he said, "but I don't know what that means."

"It means that he puts away sons of bitches like your old owners," Jack said matter of factly. "And that's good, isn't it, boy?" He wrapped his arm around the slave, pulling him close to his body, and Ian sort of melted into him. Jack sure was touchy with his slaves.

"If… If you say so, Master," he said, voice unsteady, and Jack gave him a smile.

"Aw, I know you still can't make yourself talk bad about those asshats. But what they did was wrong. Treated you like shit, and you were way too young, too." He planted a kiss on the boy's forehead then pushed him away. "Now go finish up in the kitchen. Oh, and talk to Toby again about the whole falling in love with stuffed animals deal, would you? I swear, if that kid doesn't shape up I'm going to have to hire a damn slave trainer, and I really don't want to waste the money."

"Of course, Master," Ian replied, nodding. "I am sorry about Toby. I've been working with him, sir, but I think he tries to imitate Master Tyler sometimes. Don't worry, though, I'm sure he'll understand his place completely when he's a little older, Master."

"Hopefully," Jack said with a sigh. "Hey, is dinner almost ready?"

"Yes, Master," Ian replied. "And Mistress just called. She is almost home."

"Awesome," Jack said, giving Peter a big smile. "I'm starving, what about you?"

Yeah, absolutely starving, except for the intense urge to puke at how people treated their slaves. Peter sighed, rubbing at his forehead. He'd thought hanging out with a convicted felon was the essence of bad influence, but forget that. Your average everyday joe was the real pit of moral despair.

Man, being a master was really turning out to be a headache.


	20. Goodbye, Mr. T-Rex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a four year old master invades the kitchen, Neal threatens to kill Mr. T-Rex, and Peter discovers that SlaveMart uses torture to train children.

"What did I say about carrying Mr. T-Rex around with you, Toby?" Ian said in a cool voice as he stared down at the little boy crying in the middle of the kitchen floor, his arms wrapped around his tiny knees.

"I'm sorry, Ian," the kid said, wiping at his runny nose with his shoulder as more tears fell down his pudgy cheeks. "I'm really sorry."

"You didn't cry like that in front of him, did you?" Neal asked, maybe a little sternly considering the boy hardly more than a baby, but there was no point in going easy on him. You were never too young to obey your master.

The boy looked up with wide blue eyes, still teeming with tears. "No, sir, I didn't, Neal. I didn't cry at all 'til I got in the kitchen."

"Good," Neal said, squatting down next to him, wincing a little when the butt plug shifted in his ass. That was really starting to get annoying. "Because one little spanking shouldn't be enough to make you cry."

Never mind the fact that he'd been bawling like a baby at least once a day since he'd left that goddamn prison. Funny how Peter could have that effect on him. But hey, Toby didn't know about all that.

"It's not the spanking," the little boy said, lower lip quivering. "It's Mr. T-Rex. Master Tyler says he's lonely when he's not with me, and he misses me because he loves me."

Neal let out a sigh. It really wasn't appropriate to imagine strangling a child, especially one who doubled as a slave master, but sometimes he wanted to grab kids like that and shake some sense into them. Their slave was *not* their brother! When would they figure that out?

"You can't always listen to the little master," Neal said in a serious voice, reaching out and cupping the boy's chin. "What Master Jack says comes first." He paused, making sure the boy was looking him right in the eyes. "Now I want you to pay attention to me, okay?" Neal took a deep breath. "Toby, Mr. T-Rex can't miss you or love you, because Mr. T-Rex isn't alive. He's only pretend." God, it was like telling the kid that Santa Claus was just make believe. At least you never had to go there with child slaves, considering that they didn't get presents at Christmas anyway.

"I know he's not real," Toby said miserably, sniffling as more tears welled up in his eyes. "But I like to pretend he loves me."

Ah. Neal knew that feeling and, from the look on Ian's face, he was pretty sure the other boy did too. What slave didn't? Of course, as you got older it was more of a 'pretend my master loves me' thing than a 'pretend the toy loves me' thing, but it still got you in trouble, thinking like that. Hell, that sort of pretending had nearly earned Neal another four years as a prison slave.

"No more pretending," Ian said firmly. "And no more stuffed animals, Toby. They are not yours, and if you start carrying one around again, I will whip you myself, for real, not the silly little spankings Master gives you. You understand me?"

"Yes, Ian," Toby replied, though his blue eyes were still watering. "I'm sorry I was bad."

Ian knelt down on the other side of the kid, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder. "It's okay, Toby, as long as you're sorry. Just try and be better next time, okay? If you keep getting attached to objects, Master is going to hire a trainer, and I promise that it will not be fun. I don't want you to go through that."

"He's right," Neal said. "They'll take all the things you love and when they're done with training, you won't even be able to look at those things anymore. You don't want that to happen with Mr. T-Rex, do you? If he could feel, I bet it would make him very sad that you got hurt for him."

Toby nodded and Neal reached out, wiping at the kid's wet cheek with his thumb. "You need to smile now and be a good boy, okay? Then everything will be alright. Do you understa—"

"I'm sorry, Toby." The miserable sounding words cut Neal off in mid sentence, and he looked up sharply, narrowing his eyes at the little boy with short brown hair peeking around the doorframe, his face red and his nose runny. "I'm really sorry."

Great. Just what they needed. A four year old master in the kitchen.

"You don't have anything to apologize for, little Master," Neal said, moving over toward the boy in an attempt to sort of herd him away. It didn't work, though, the boy just darted around him, rushing to Toby's side.

"Why don't you go see your daddy, Master Tyler?" Ian said, not looking too pleased himself.

"No!" the boy said stubbornly. "I gotta talk to Toby. I'm sorry, Toby."

Toby gave the other boy a brave little smile, his lip only wobbling a little. "S'okay, Master. You don't gotta be sorry to me."

The boy glanced down almost shyly, looking up at Toby through his lashes. "Look what I got you." He reached into the pocket of his jean shorts and pulled out something small and pink. From the pained look on Ian's face, Neal had a feeling that this was 'Mr. T-Rex.'

"Here ya go," Tyler said, holding out the toy. "Mr. T-Rex missed you."

Oh, God help them all.

Toby licked his lips, glancing nervously back and forth between Tyler and Ian.

"Remember what we talked about, Toby," Ian said in a warning voice.

"Here, little Master, let me have it, okay?" Neal stepped over by him, holding out his hand. "We'll take good care of him, okay?"

Tyler eyed him suspiciously for a second, like he wasn't quite sure he trusted this strange slave in his kitchen, but after a moment he obeyed, dropping the little toy into Neal's palm.

"There we go," Ian said with a smile. "Now you go find your daddy, okay? It's almost dinner time. I made you macaroni and cheese instead of peas."

A bright smile lit up Tyler's face and he leapt into the air clapping, all previous woes gone at the mention of mac and cheese. "Yay! I love macaroni and cheese!"

"Go on now," Ian said, ushering him out of the room. "Get on out of here or I'll tell your mamma that I give you extra mac and cheese so you can hide the peas you're supposed to be eating first!"

Tyler's eyes went wide. "No!"

Ian's lip twitched in amusement and Neal had to hold back a laugh. "Yes," he said, wagging his finger. "I will. You know I will." Okay, now the little boy just looked like a cartoon, he looked so worried. Ian began to chuckle, and Tyler's eyes narrowed.

"You were teasin' me!"

"Maybe, maybe not, Master," Ian said, holding out his arms. Tyler took the hint and bounded into them, laughing as Ian picked him up and spun him around in the air.

"Spin me, too!" Toby said, climbing to his feet and jumping up and down, arms extended.

Ian frowned in his direction. "I don't think so. We need to have another little chat." Ian deposited a giggling Tyler back on the ground, giving him a light slap on the butt. "Go on! My arms are tired. Go get Daddy to spin you."

"Don't wanna," Tyler said, pouting a little. "Daddy's no fun. All day he's been a meanie! The milk was yucky in my Apple Jacks."

Ian glanced over at Neal, an amused look on his face. "Master put Mistress' soy milk in by accident."

Neal winced. He could see how that would displease a toddler.

"And then he wouldn't let me play on the Wii!" Tyler said grumpily.

"He tried, sweetie. It wasn't working." Ian shook his head. "Daddy doesn't know where the reset button is."

"And then he made me do school stuff and it wasn't school stuff time!"

Ian let out a sigh. "Yeah, well, I don't think Daddy knows that we set up a homework chart, so that really wasn't his fault."

"I don't care," Tyler said, grinning up at Ian. "You're my bestest bud." He glanced over at Toby. "Except for Toby. But you're my grownup bestest bud. How about you be my Daddy and Daddy can be my Uncle?"

Ian winced, looking a little nervous, not that Neal could blame him. It wasn't uncommon for small children of free men to bond with the slaves who cared for them, but it didn't always turn out well for the slaves if the parents got jealous.

"You can't pick your Daddy, sweetie, that's what makes him your Daddy." Ian squatted down, pointing a finger at the boy. "Besides, your Daddy lets you get away with anything. Don't think I didn't hear that screaming."

Tyler sort of shrunk down, starting to look distinctly nervous.

"Daddy may think you were just upset, but I know you only screamed all loud like that because your Daddy has friends over and you knew it would upset him. And don't think I'm gonna forget about it, either. You have three red tallies now, so I suggest you be good or cookie time tomorrow is gonna be carrot time instead, you understand me?"

"Three?" Tyler said in disbelief. "How did I get three?"

"You threw Apple Jacks at Daddy," Ian said, holding up one finger. "You used a bad word when you found out Toby couldn't play with you today." Two fingers. "And you threw a big old temper tantrum in front of nice Madam and Master Burke." Three fingers. "It's supposed to be three strikes and cookies are out. I'm giving you a freebie because I know things today went a little… rough… without me around. But one more tally, and Toby's gonna be a happy bunny and you're gonna be a sad cookie monster."

"Carrots are yummy," Toby said in a very serious tone, nodding his head to emphasize the point.

Tyler made a face. "No, they're not. I'm sorry, Ian," he said in a whiny voice. "I be good, okay?"

"You promise?" Ian said, raising an eyebrow. "'Cause I made peanut butter crunchies, and I'd hate to have to give them away..."

"I *promise*," Tyler said emphatically.

"Pinkie promise?" Ian said, holding up his pinkie. Neal smiled in amusement as Tyler wrapped his own tiny little finger around it. "Pinkie promise."

"Okay, little Master," Ian said with a smile. "Now go find your Daddy."

Neal chuckled as Tyler dashed out of the room. "It must be neat to belong to a family," he said as he watched the boy run out.

"Yeah," Ian said, giving him a slightly stressed smile. "It is, except for the fact that you have all the worry but none of the control. Oh man, when Tyler and Toby started pre-k, I thought I was going to pass out from worry. I probably drove Master nuts, giving him lists of their favorite cartoon characters for when he bought school supplies and telling him what the cool kids on the Disney Channel were wearing and researching different schools when I'd usually be sleeping in my cage." He chuckled. "Mistress got it, at least. Master would roll his eyes and sigh, while she would smile and give me a little wink. Of course, T-ball try outs were Master's time to sweat—never mind that every kid who tries out makes the team."

"You really love them," Neal said, and Ian nodded.

"How could I not?" he asked. "Toby was delivered to Master and Mistress two days after Tyler was born. I was the one who fed them and rocked them and got up in the night to change their diapers and sing them to sleep when they cried." His eyes dropped down to Toby, a serious look coming over his face. "And that's why you and I need to have a little talk, Toby," Ian said. "Because I love you." He glanced over at Neal, eyes dropping to the toy in his hand, and Neal gave a sharp nod, knowing immediately where Ian's mind was.

They needed to nip this Mr. T-Rex thing in the bud.

Neal held the toy out, and Toby looked up at him with suspicious blue eyes. "For me?" he asked, sounding unsure.

Neal gave a short nod, doing his best to steel himself for the tears that were surely to come.

Toby bit his lip, still looking unsure, but he made his way over to Neal, reaching out and taking the stuffed animal slowly from his hand.

"Good," Neal said in an emotionless tone. "Now go throw it in the trash."

The little boy froze, his whole body tensing up. "Wh-what?" he asked, his voice sort of squeaking.

"Throw it away," Neal said, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down at the kid. "Right now. Throw it away."

Toby turned toward Ian, a distraught look on his face, but Ian's face was just as hard as Neal's.

"The trash, Toby," he said. His voice was very even, but Neal was a conman and he could sense the other boy's sadness. They both knew it was for the best, though. "Put Mr. T-Rex in the trash."

"B-but I—"

"No buts," Neal said, moving forward and grabbing the kid by the arm, tugging him toward the trash bin in the corner. "Throw him away, now. The toy is not yours. The toy is not something you should love. This shouldn't be hard, Toby. If you were a good slave, this wouldn't be hard at all. Throw. The toy. Away."

Tears were running down the boy's face now as he clutched Mr. T-Rex with both hands, staring down into its smiling face. His little shoulders were shaking, and he choked out a sob.

"Throw him away now," Neal said, carefully hiding the way his stomach was twisting as he looked down at the poor kid. This was for the boy's own good. "Throw him away, or Ian and I are going to have to kill him."

Toby head jerked up. "Wh-what?"

Ian reached over, pulling a chopping knife out of the block, and holding it out to Neal.

"It's only a toy, boy," Neal said. "There's no reason to be sad. It isn't alive, and it doesn't belong to you. Obviously, you don't believe that, though, so if you don't throw Mr. T-Rex away, I'm going to kill him. I'm going to cut him open and pull all of his stuffing out."

Toby was sobbing outright now, though Ian had obviously worked with him, because despite the huge wash of tears and his trembling, buckled body, it was pretty much silent. Not anything that would disturb his master in the other room, anyway. He was still holding Mr. T-Rex pressed against his body, though.

"Toby," Ian said softly. "Do what Neal says."

The boy took a deep breath, choking back his tears and slowly, so slowly, he took a shaky step toward the trash, then another, then another. After what seemed like forever, he pulled the toy away from his chest, fingers still grasping it tightly. Toby stared down at the toy's pink, smiling face for a moment, then squeezed his eyes shut and reached out, holding it over the trash bin. His tiny hand was shaking, fingers clutched so tight his knuckles were white.

"Let it go," Neal said in a soft voice. "It's time to let it go, Toby."

One last deep breath, and Toby's hand opened, sending Mr. T-Rex tumbling into the trash. He then collapsed onto the ground in tears, and Ian knelt down next to him, wrapping his arms around the boy's trembling body.

Neal smiled sadly, feeling disturbingly empty inside. It wasn't often he felt the parts of him that had been hacked away as a tiny child, but every once in awhile something like this would happen and Neal would remember exactly what he was missing inside, and the ache that the cavity left behind. But, hey, it was all part of being a slave.

"What the hell are you *doing*?"

Neal jumped at the angry voice, his eyes widening as he looked up at a furious looking Peter glaring at him from the doorway, hands clenched into fists.

His only thought? Oh, great. What had he done *now*?

o o o

Neal made a small sound of discomfort as Peter pretty much dragged the slave out the patio door by the elbow. The door slammed shut behind them, and Peter released Neal, who stared up at him at him with a confused—and somewhat frightened—look.

"What the hell was that?" Peter asked, hands on his hips. "How could you do that, Neal?"

"Do what?" Neal asked, rubbing at his arm where Peter had grabbed him. "I'm sorry, Master, but I don't know what you mean."

Peter made a huffing sound, shaking his head in disbelief. "That poor kid! What is he, four years old, crying his eyes out, and you're threatening to 'kill' his favorite toy?" Peter blinked rapidly, pretending to rub his forehead as he quickly dabbed at his eyes. What could he say? He was a sucker for kids, and that little boy was heartbreaking. "You're a lot of things, Neal, but I never thought of you as cruel."

Neal's jaw clenched ever so slightly, and Peter's eyes narrowed.

"What?" he snapped, annoyed. "Are you actually going to try and pretend that wasn't cruelty out there? I know there's a whole bunch of 'we repeat the things that others do to us' psychology crap, and I'm sure you have some good excuse about teaching him to be a 'good slave' or whatever, but he's four years old, Neal, and he already took a beating that he didn't deserve tonight! I know everybody thinks I'm as naive as hell about this slave crap, but you're not a goddamn trainer. You didn't have to do that! You could have cut him a break! You could have cut him a fucking break, Neal!"

Neal stared at him for a long moment then dropped his head, slim shoulders starting to shake, and for a second Peter thought he was crying, then a little laugh escaped. Peter's brow furrowed as the man began to laugh outright, though there was more than a little bitterness to it.

"Okay…" Peter said slowly, a little annoyed. "Did I miss the joke here? I thought we were being serious."

Neal looked up, giving Peter a tired grin. "I'm sorry, Master, but you really are naive. I mean, you really are." He sounded mildly astonished. "For days I've been thinking that, deep down, you understood, but you really don't know anything at all, do you? All those years in Vice Collar, and you don't know anything at all." He shook his head, laughing again, and it still had a bit of a maniacal edge to it.

"I wouldn't say I know *nothing,*" Peter said, scowling, but Neal laughed yet again.

"Don't you see, Master? We *were* cutting him a break. You think we were doing that for fun?" Neal ran a hand through his mess of curls. "Ian loves those kids like they're his own. Hell, they might as well be his own. Let's face it. Most kids these days are raised by slaves, and the parents can't handle a single day without them there. You can bet that Master Tyler wouldn't have gotten away with being such a little brat today if Ian hadn't been busy in the kitchen. Of course, it didn't help that Master Jack doesn't know jack-shit about his kid's day to day life. But then, what free men do anymore?"

"What does any of this have to do with tormenting that poor kid?" Peter asked, not sure where the hell this conversation was going.

"Every time I hear the word 'cowabunga,' I swear to God I feel ghost pains," Neal said, his laughter cutting off abruptly and his voice going flat. "From the day when they took the Ninja Turtle I found on the bus and made me hold it while they burned me over and over again. I love to paint, but I still associate brushes with the red that was covering my thighs after they finished fucking me with them. And I can honestly say that I have never again considered sneaking a sip of soda to see what it tastes like, not after they water boarded me in a bucket full of Pepsi." 

The lack of emotion in Neal's voice was almost as disturbing as his words and Peter felt goosebumps rising on his arms. 

"At least that last one was pretty creative,” Neal said, shaking his head. “Threatening to destroy the toy a little slave uses as a crutch if he doesn't agree to throw it away himself isn't cruelty, Master. Cruelty is letting it go and letting it go until Master Jack gets so sick of it that he sticks the kid in day-training, so the professionals can use their much touted 'distancing techniques' to get it through his little head that slaves don't own things. Not even themselves."

"They… they did all that to you?" Peter asked, wondering when he was going to stop being surprised to hear about the various tortures Neal had lived through. Just when he thought he'd heard the worst…

But waterboarding? In a bucket full of *Pepsi*? *Seriously*?

"They do that to all slaves, Master," Neal said flatly. "You think we're born with the innate understanding that nothing in this world is ours? Kids are like Toby. They want to love things, loving things makes them feel safe. Every child slave goes through this when they're young. In fact, it's a training phase. They call it the 3Ds."

The 3Ds? "What, it makes you, like, three dimensional as a person?" Peter said, feeling stupid the moment he said it. That made no sense.

Neal rolled his eyes. "Toby's one of the lucky ones. If Master Calloway hadn't bought him as an infant, right now he'd been living in a SlaveMart warehouse, just starting Dehumanization. After that would come Distancing, and after that, Dedication. The 3Ds. The foundation of a slave's mentality. Toby's learning it organically, but most slaves learned it like I did. Like Ian probably did. Through the 3Ds."

Peter stared at him. "What? I mean… how do you even teach that stuff? Dehumanization? How is that a class?"

Neal glanced over toward the patio door, biting his lip. "It looks like Ian's almost ready—"

"Tell me," Peter commanded.

Neal sighed, looking back over at him. "I would suggest reading Heinberg's ‘Slave Integration,’ Master. Or, if you like things a little more lighthearted, try ‘The Dummies Guide to Raising a Child-slave.’ I should go help—"

"Just give me the Cliff Notes version," Peter said, gritting his teeth. "Neither of those sound like books I want to waste my money on. Ian can wait."

Neal sighed again, looking tired. "Fine. Cliff Notes version. Um, Dehumanization. You gather a group of ten to twenty child-slaves of the same race and gender to serve a small group of trainers. On arrival, shave their heads and dress them identically. No shoes. Give them a number to wear around their necks as identification. Have the slaves serve for a period of three to six months, randomly exchanging their numbers with other slaves."

"Why?" Peter asked. Sure, he got that dressing everybody the same and using numbers instead of names could be dehumanizing, but why have them trade?

Neal shrugged. "Well, say you were 7 on Monday and then on Tuesday you're 11. You go to serve a trainer, and he starts talking to you about something you did yesterday—only he's not talking about you, he's talking about whoever was wearing number 11 on Monday. It really grinds home the fact that you're interchangeable. This is the phase where slaves learn to speak only when spoken to; to stay out of a master's line of sight whenever possible; to never sit on furniture; and to stand silently and wait for orders if your master is busy instead of going off and doing something else you want to do."

Peter's stomach clenched, the idea tickling a very unpleasant memory, one he’d tried his best to forget over the years and that was now riding steadily to the surface.

"That leads into Distancing, where they purposely give you something to bond with, then use what they call 'dominance techniques' to make sure that you will forever relate that item—and any other item you're tempted to use as a crutch—with pain and fear and torment." Neal's voice was hurried, but not like he was bothered by the topic, more like he was rattling off a grocery list when he'd rather be doing something else.

Did Neal really have no concept of the meaning behind the things he was saying?

"Carry this over into Dedication, where the slave is rewarded for forming a bond with its master, cementing the notion that your master is the only thing that it’s safe to trust." Neal sighed. "There. Cliff Notes version." He glanced back toward the patio door. "Ian might need me, Master."

"Fine, go," Peter said tightly, Neal's quick, careless words feeling like a ninety pound weight on his chest. "I-I'll be there in a minute." His voice sounded hollow, even to himself.

Neal hesitated for a second, frowning like he was trying to figure out what was wrong with Peter, then he nodded once and took off for the kitchen. Peter waited until the door shut behind his slave before he dropped down into one of the patio chairs, settling his head in his hands as he tried really, really hard not to cry.

How the hell had Neal rattled that all off like it was nothing? Didn't he even realize what he'd just said? He was a smart boy, smart as hell. How could he not make the connection? How could he not see what they’d done to him?

Peter majored in accounting, but he'd taken a few courses in psychology, mostly because pretty Susan Burchman had been psych major and he'd really wanted to get into her pants. Most of the head doctor crap was a blur to him, but there was one semester that was burned into his mind, and not in a good way. 

The class was called the Psychology of War, and going into it, Peter thought it would be cool. He figured it would be an 'Art of War' type of thing, a whole 'this is how the chessmaster generals score' type deal. Instead, it had been four solid months of torture, and he didn't mean that it was boring. The entire class was about torture.

Hundreds of thousands of Jews and gypsies and homosexuals, 'concentrated' in an area away from the good people of Germany, with death awaiting them in the showers. American soldiers proudly holding up trophies sliced from the bodies of the Middle Eastern fighters, smiling and laughing with no care for the blood on their hands. Labor camps full of men wearing numbers, whipped and raped and tormented simply because their guards could.

This wasn't the first time Peter had heard about what Neal called the 3Ds. It was simply the prettiest synonym it had ever been graced with. The 3Ds had existed for millennium—only most people just called it torture—and it was the most efficient way to win a war. A way to destroy the enemy before you ever picked up a rifle.

Step one, spread propaganda stating that the enemy is less than human, instilling feelings of hatred and disgust. Step two, strip your enemy of their rights and take away all their freedoms, leaving them completely vulnerable to attack. Step three, take up arms and destroy them all. Three steps, and the enemy is conquered.

First D, convince your slaves that they are less than human, instilling feelings of inferiority and replaceability. Second D, strip your slaves of any right to possess or care for anything, and punish them for making emotional connections, leaving them vulnerable to psychological conditioning. Third D, make them believe that you are their whole world. Three steps, and the child is a slave.

Apparently if it worked for Hitler, it could work for SlaveMart, too.

Naive, his friends had been calling him, shaking their heads at his innocence and talking about how 'Peter needed to get a clue.' Fuck that. Peter wasn't naive, everybody else was. Naive for thinking that slaves just did their duties like goddamn robots, right out of the box. Naive for believing that all these "needs" slaves supposedly have come from any sort of healthy training. Naive for thinking that torture is a-okay, as long as it’s used on slaves and not foreign prisoners. After all, the United Nations had never made any treaties protecting slaves.

This kind of slavery was *wrong.* It was one thing to own a person, it was another thing entirely to torture children into obedience, fucking with their heads using techniques that were perfected by some of the most evil rulers in history to commit acts of genocide and terror.

Why the hell would people even use these kind of techniques? Were there really books out there on this? Could you really get a Dummies Guide to torturing small children into being good slaves? Slavery had been around for thousands of years, but Peter was pretty sure that these '3Ds' hadn't been the norm all that time. When had they gone from slaves who lived their whole lives working for a single family to slaves being passed around like candy bars, with each owner snapping off another piece until there was nothing left?

Peter huffed. Who was he fooling? He knew the answer to that question. Everyone knew the answer to that question. Until SlaveMart came around, slaves were rare commodities, owned mostly by ranchers and rich people. Somehow Peter didn't see Diana's parents tormenting a little boy for playing with a toy so he would "love them best." 

Back when people were responsible for training their own slaves, no one resorted to disgusting, stomach twisting "techniques." There were no manuals professing how to best torture your new slave into submission or TV show psychologists rambling on about slaves not feeling things the way "people" did. All of that bullshit had started up right around the time the big box slave industries popped into existence.

Not too long before Neal was born, unfortunately for him.

Hell, Peter wasn't even sure where SlaveMart had gotten all those slaves from, back in the seventies when the craze first started up. Sure, they didn't sell a million the first week or anything, but it was never a small business. Peter remembered the first commercials, back in the late seventies. He even remembered Mr. Potter down the street bringing home the first slave in their neighborhood. The entire block had come out to ooh and ah over this new luxury, and within a year, almost everybody had a house slave of their own. Hell, they couldn't have cost more than a hundred bucks back then, about the same as a high quality TV.

Had they been breeding and training kids in the 3Ds back then? They couldn't have, because their slaves had to have been adults. SlaveMart opened in 1978, they wouldn't have had time to breed them from childhood. So where *had* all those slaves come from? Honestly, Peter didn't know. Hell, he'd never even thought about it before.

"Master Burke?"

Peter looked up, surprised to see little Toby hovering no more than a foot away. How long had he been standing there? Peter wasn't sure. The boy's eyes were still red and his nose was swollen from crying, but all his tears were dried up and he had a smile on his face that didn't even look forced.

"Slave Neal said that I should come and tell you that dinner will be ready soon, and that Master and Mistress and Master Tyler and Madam Burke are sitting down now, sir." The boy's forehead was wrinkled up as he obviously worked very hard to remember everything he'd been told to say. Man, he was a cute kid. Peter hadn't been thrilled with the way Jack treated him, but now he was starting to think the boy lucked out. There was one thing he needed to know before he left this house tonight, though.

Peter hadn't missed the careless way Jack talked about Ian, and while he could at least tolerate it with the teenager, if this kid was another Neal minus the Thomas the Tank Engine t-shirt, there was no way in hell Peter was leaving him in this house for even one more night. He’d let it go all those years ago because he hadn't felt there was anything he could do—but not anymore. He had power now, and no more kids would be hurt like that under his watch.

"Um, and Slave Neal said to ask if you would like another drink," Toby added, looking proud of himself for remembering.

"I'm good, Toby," Peter said, giving him a smile. "But thank you."

Toby nodded. "Yes, Master," he said, starting back toward the door, but Peter reached out, grabbing his arm.

"Toby, can I ask you something?" Peter said, voice serious.

The boy stared at him with wide eyes, looking a little nervous, but gave a nod. "Of course, Master Burke."

"Does your master ever… touch you in weird places, Toby?" Peter asked, his face turning red as he said it, the mere words making him feel ill. "Places you don't like?"

Toby frowned, cocking his head to the side, obviously thinking real hard about the question.

"Um… he tickles my feet sometimes," the boy said, scowling deeply. "I don't like that."

Peter held back a laugh. "Yeah, tickling feet is no fun." He bit his lip, trying to figure out how to express what he meant to the kid without actually saying anything that would scar the boy on its own. "But I really meant, like, in your private places?" Ugh, this was not a fun conversation.

Toby rolled his eyes dramatically. "No, I can go to the bathroom by myself." He held up three fingers, frowned, and then added one more. "I am *four*, you know. I'm not a baby, Master Burke."

"Of course you're not," Peter said, feeling relieved. At least he wouldn't have to break any bones today. Uh, arrest anyone today, that is. Yeah, he totally meant arrest.

"Are you comin' to dinner, Master Burke?" the boy asked, smiling up at him.

"Yeah," Peter said, returning his smile as he stood up, holding out his hand. "Why don't you walk me, Toby?"

"Okay!" the kid said, grabbing his hand happily. "I'll walk you, Master Burke!"

Peter chuckled as Toby started dragging him along to the door. If he and El ever did buy a slave, they were definitely getting the young model. It was amazing how much friendlier slaves were before they were tortured and raped into submission.


	21. Hello, Mr. Cuddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Neal gets cuddly, Peter gets jealous, and butt plugs are revealed.

"And then ask him if he wants another drink, okay?" Neal said, and Toby nodded, a very serious look on his face, like he was writing down everything in his head. "Good boy." Neal gave the kid a pat on the back and the boy dashed through the patio door, intent on his mission.

When Neal turned back around, Ian was slowly stirring a pot full of macaroni and cheese, staring off at nothing, a little wrinkle between his eyes. Neal didn't have to be psychic to figure out what was bothering the boy. Mamma slaves were such worry warts.

"He'll learn," Neal said quietly, placing his hands on Ian's tense shoulders, massaging them gently.

Ian sort of jumped, like he hadn't even noticed Neal was there, then let out a short laugh, glancing over with a distressed look on his face. "I hope so," he said softly, his blue eyes shiny. "I don't understand why it's taking so long. He's almost five, you know. By his age I was already fully trained, on the market."

"Well, it's different for the ones trained at home," Neal said quietly, still working at Ian's tight muscles. "He's not really behind, I promise. They learn slower in situations like this, but they learn better. Pretty soon he'll be a great slave, and not because he's afraid to be anything else, like we were. He'll be a good slave because he loves his master."

Ian sighed. "I'm just afraid Master will sell him if he doesn't shape up, and he won't find a nicer home than this one." He leaned back so he was pressed up against Neal's chest, and Neal wrapped his arms around the smaller boy, squeezing gently. "I've had thirteen masters, and none of them were as kind as Master Jack and Mistress Rhonda. Master doesn't even believe in whipping slaves, can you believe that?" He huffed, shaking his head. "At first living like this actually disturbed me. I'd heard how nice it was to be a whipping boy or a house slave for these little families, but all I'd even been was a fuckling for rich men. I went straight from Slave Mart's aisles to the black market when I was five, and it was all pain from there."

"I have to say, living with liberals is kind of nice," Neal admitted, and Ian turned in his arms, looking up into his eyes with interest.

"Is your master the same way?"

"Yeah, sort of," Neal said slowly. "I mean, I've only been with them a few days, but some of the things he's done are just *crazy.*"

"Like what?" Ian said, reaching up and wrapping his arms around Neal's neck, hand playing in his hair. Man, it had been a long time since he'd been touched like this. Safety petting hadn't been allowed at the prison—not that it was really allowed anywhere—but God it felt nice to have some human contact you knew wasn't going to end in pain or shame or sex. Just nice, safe touching.

"Well, for one thing, I eat at the table with them. As in, at the table. In a chair. At the same time, eating the same food." Neal shook his head in disbelief. "And my mistress gave me a towel. As in, 'here, this belongs to you.'"

"Okay," Ian said, looking a little distressed by the idea. "That's odd… Was it some kind of trick?"

"No, it wasn't. Can you believe that?" Neal said, glad to be around someone who actually understood. He was sick of people looking at him as if he was insane for reasons he didn't understand. "Oh, man, and he's been talking about giving me an *allowance.*" He began to rub small circles along Ian's back.

"An allowance of what?" the boy asked. "Food?"

Neal let out a huff of laughter. "No. Of money."

Ian's mouth dropped open. "Is he insane?" the boy said with a laugh. "Slaves don't use money. What would you buy?"

Neal shrugged. "I have no idea. None at all. I mean, seriously, I was thinking about it and I honestly have zero idea of what I would buy with an allowance."

"Do you even know how to use money?" Ian asked.

"Yeah," Neal said, cheeks warming slightly, "I've, uh, used money before. It's not as hard as it seems."

Ian raised an eyebrow. "It's the coins that get me. Did you know that sometimes the bigger ones are worth less than the little ones?"

"Yeah, it's weird," Neal agreed. "It's not really about what the metal is worth anymore, though. Money just represents stock piles of gold and stuff that the government has in storage. That's why it's so easy to fake."

"Why were you using money, anyway?" Ian asked, looking curious.

Neal let his hands drop to boy's waist, cheeks reddening again. "Um, well, I'm, uh…" He paused, sure that this next part was not going to go over well. "I'm sort of a criminal slave. Or was!" he added quickly when Ian started to step back. Neal really didn't want to lose his touch stone yet. He was actually starting to feel truly relaxed for the first time in a *really* long time. "I'm reformed, I swear. Which is why this whole thing with my new master is so weird. I want to be good, but his idea of 'good' really doesn't line up with mine."

Ian frowned at him for another moment, then put his hand back in Neal's hair, stroking lightly. "It can be confusing," he said softly. "Master Jack always wants me to tell him if I don't feel good, but I don't understand what the point is. It doesn't matter how I feel, I'm still going to do my job, so why should I bother him with that? And if I *do* tell him, then he tries to take my job away, and then I feel useless. And what's the point in keeping a useless slave?"

Neal shrugged. "I don't know. It's an affection thing, I guess. I had a mistress once who was like that with me." He paused, a wave of bitterness washing over him. "Of course, in the end she didn't want me at all."

"That's what I'm afraid will happen," Ian said, looking worried. "I mean, you're old, so you must be really special for your master to want you so bad. There's nothing special about me. What happens when I get old?"

"I don't know," Neal said quietly. "Would your master put you down?"

"I'm sure he would," Ian replied, tugging lightly at Neal's curls. "I've never met a master who wouldn't."

"Mine swore he won't," Neal said in a soft voice, the words feeling strange on his lips. "Like, ever."

"What, have you got two dicks or something?" Ian replied, looking amused. Neal made a small sound as the boy pulled away, but Ian just took the pot off the stove and returned to Neal, wrapping his arms back around his neck. "Or do you have a vacuum cleaner in your throat?" Ian asked, the feathers tattooed on his face warping as he truly grinned for the first time that night.

"No, just the one dick," Neal said with a laugh. "Hell, as of right now he doesn't seem all that interested in the one I have." He sighed. "It's kind of frustrating. Like you said. Who needs a useless slave? How am I supposed to make a place for myself in his home if he doesn't even want me?"

"Oh, he wants you," Ian said, giving Neal a knowing look. "I saw the way he was looking at your body." Ian's hands dropped down as he leaned back, running his hands across Neal's pecs. "He'll fuck you eventually."

"I guess," Neal said softly, mood sobering suddenly as an image of the hat stealer flashed through his mind. God, that was such a mess. It sure would be nice to be able to talk to someone who *really* understood. "Can I tell you a confession?" he asked, searching the other boy's face.

Ian paused in his inspection of Neal's chest, meeting his eyes with a serious look. "Does it involve my master?" he asked quietly, eyes locked with Neal's.

"No," Neal replied, shaking his head. "It's got nothing to do with your master."

Ian licked his lips, gazing off at nothing for a moment, then gave a short nod. "Okay," he said quietly. "I'll keep your confession, as long as it has nothing to do with my master. But if Master Jack gets involved, I'll give your confession."

"Fair enough," Neal said. He dropped his eyes, studying Ian's black jeans. "Yesterday, Master took me to his office. When he sent me to lunch, a man he doesn't like followed me into the break room and used me." His voice cracked slightly on the last words.

"I'm guessing since you want me to keep your confession that your master doesn't know," Ian said.

"No," Neal admitted, face going red at the look on Ian's face. "I… I didn't tell him."

"That's not being a good slave, Neal," Ian said, shaking his head. On one level the words hurt, but mostly they felt good, because they felt real. Ian knew what it meant to be a slave. There would be no sappy scenes or words of comfort. Just the cold, hard truth. "You have to tell him. It's his body, and he has a right to know that someone used it. I mean, what if you ended up with an STD? I would never lie to my master like that."

"I know," Neal said, voice coming out a little hoarse. "But I'm afraid if I tell him, then he won't want me ever. Like you said, I'm pretty but I'm not exactly a puppy. I'm old for a fuckling, almost too old. And I'm not mint goods, either, which he knows. I've had a lot of masters—more than you have by far—and I've been a prison slave."

Ian winced. "Not a pleasant lifestyle, I've heard."

"No, it's not," Neal said, aware he sounded a little miserable. "He knows about all that… I'm afraid that being used by this man at his own workplace will be the final straw, you know? The thing that makes him realize that I'm not worth all this trouble. Because I'm really not worth all this trouble, Ian."

"You think I'm worth the trouble Master put into me?" Ian said with a short laugh. He reached down and took Neal's hand, lifting it to his face, touching his fingertips to the feathers inked onto his cheek. "I know what it's like to be the used goods nobody wants, Neal. I came from a rescue. I was scheduled to be euthanized, and Master took me out of the goodness of his heart." He sounded shaky. "I still don't know why. I was so fucked up…

"The last Master I had would choke me, every time he fucked me, until I blacked out, and every time Master Jack used me, I would start to cry or whimper or shake, even though he never hurt me. I'd been sent to the rescue because my Master thought I had brain damage from all the choking, and that's what they told Master Jack. I thought maybe I did, too, because no matter what I did, I couldn't stop myself from whimpering or shaking or whatever. I expected to be sent back to the rescue within a week, or to be put down in the bathtub or something." Ian swallowed hard.

"But he kept me, and every time he touched me he would whisper in my ear that he wasn't there to hurt me. It was two years before I could offer myself to him with a smile, and sometimes I still feel like I'm choking and start to shake, and he'll just wrap his arms around me and hold me until I stop. Maybe you can hide what happened to you by keeping secrets and telling confessions to slaves who don't serve your master, but the things that happened to me can’t be hidden. But he kept me anyway. He treated me well, and I didn't deserve it, shaking and crying like a little child when he fucked me. That isn't good service, but I couldn't make myself stop no matter how hard I tried. Master Jack is just a good man, and a good master.

"If your master is good like you say, he'll treat you well even though you're a liar and you really don't deserve anything but a whipping. If not, then you aren't actually missing out, are you?" Ian paused, looking up at Neal seriously. "There's no decision for you to make here, Neal," he said softly. "You have to tell him. He's your master and it's his body, not yours. You don't get to decide what he knows about his body."

Neal swallowed hard. "You're right," he said quietly, knowing full well that Mozzie would bitch slap him if he could hear him now but not able to stop himself. Not when Ian was looking at him like that. "I know you're right. I'm just… I'm afraid, you know?"

Ian shrugged, then wrapped his arms back around Neal's neck. "I understand, but right now, you're a liar and a whore, because only whores let men use them then don't tell their masters. Tell him, and you'll be just a slave again. Maybe not the best slave, maybe not the newest slave, but a loyal slave. An obedient slave, who loves his master. Lucky for us, it seems like that's what matters to masters like ours."

Neal made a small sound, burying his face in Ian's hair, and they just stood there in each other's arms, swaying every so slightly, warm body to warm body—

The patio door slammed open, making both Neal and Ian jump, and Toby practically ran in, dragging an amused looking Peter behind him. Or he looked amused until he saw Neal and Ian, anyway, then his face went bright red, eyes going wide as he stared at them like they'd each grown two heads.

Neal's brow furrowed in confusion. What was he—?

"Am I interrupting something here?"

Oh, shit.

This night just got better and better, didn't it?

o o o

Peter stared in disbelief at the two slaves intertwined in the middle of the room, his face feeling like it was on fire. Talk about a bad time to walk in. Damn. He knew he'd written down that it was okay for Neal to date anyone who wasn't a felon, but getting it on in the kitchen with a slave he'd just met? Not what Peter had been expecting. And here Peter had actually thought Neal just wanted to get back and help finish making dinner.

Man, was he a sucker.

Neal and Ian sort of jumped apart, looking as embarrassed as Peter felt. Or Neal looked embarrassed, anyway. Ian didn't really seem to care, but then it wasn't *his* master who had walked in on them necking. The mere idea made Peter frown.

Wasn't Ian just a little young for Neal? Did the fact that your average masters these days were total pedophiles make it suddenly okay for Neal, too? Of course, it was obvious that this Ian kid was a total slut, no matter how old he was, with his stupid tattoo on his overly pretty face.

Peter scowled deeply, feeling unusually put off by the whole situation. In the kitchen? Really? With him right there? Have a little class! His eyes dropped to Ian, and his scowl turned into more of a baring of teeth. Little blonde hussy, with his angel feather face. Is this what he did, swoop in from the heavens to steal away other men's unusually attractive slaves with their unusually sexy clothes and unusually pink lips?

Okay, whoa, he needed to slow down. This whole line of thought was crazy. What business was it of his, anyway? It wasn't like Neal was his boyfriend, or even his sex slave, not really. I mean, yeah, he was the slave part, obviously, but not the sex part. Who was Peter to act like he'd just walked in on his wife banging Brad Pitt? Neal was free to be with whoever he liked. Even feathery frolic boy. Right?

"Master," Neal said, his face flushed—of course his face was flushed, he'd been making out with the Ken doll!—and his eyes wide. "It's not what it looks like."

Ian's brow furrowed, and he looked over at Neal with confusion. "What's not what it looks like?"

Someone obviously wasn't happy that Neal wasn't shouting his love from the rooftops.

"Master, we were just—"

Peter held up a hand, forcing a smile onto his face. "Hey, I don't need any of the dirty details, Mr. Cuddles. What you two lovebirds do on your free time means nothing to me." He paused, then added a little vindictively. "I admit, I thought you were a little classier than this, but if you want to get it on in a stranger's kitchen, that's your business."

Neal's mouth dropped open, hands going on his hips, and Ian just looked more confused than ever, like he had no idea what was going on. Obviously he was a blonde in the truest sense of the word.

"Oh, fuck you, Master," Neal snapped back, and Ian made a small sound of shock, actually stumbling backward. "Mr. Cuddles? Seriously? And don't talk to me about class, Mr. Wears-Suspenders-and-a-Belt-at-the-Same-Time! Talk about redundant."

"Neal," Ian hissed, reaching out and grabbing the slave's arm. "Shut up!"

Peter's eyes narrowed. "Oh, you stay out of this, Marilyn."

"Oh, that was a good one, Master," Neal said, rolling his eyes. "You know, except for the fact that he's probably never seen a movie in his life that wasn't put out by Pixar or Disney, so your reference was pointless. Cute, but pointless."

"Neal," Ian said in a warning voice, "shut your mouth, now."

"Who are you to order my slave around?" Peter asked, scowling. "Aren't you supposed to be the one following orders?"

"I'll be glad to follow any order you give me, Master Burke," Ian replied tightly, looking very stressed.

"Fine," Peter snapped. "Then go jump off a cliff." Let's see how he liked that one.

Ian bit his lip, glancing nervously between Peter and Neal. "I-I'm sorry, Master Burke," he said finally. "But I can't follow an order that would get me killed unless it was given to me by my own master."

"Some slave you are," Peter said sarcastically, and Neal made a sound of annoyance.

"Why the hell are you picking on him? I thought you were all about helping slaves or whatever," Neal snapped.

"Okay, that's enough, Neal," Ian said, voice suddenly commanding. He picked up a spatula off the counter and grabbed Neal by the front of the shirt, yanking him forward at the same time he kicked one of his legs, sending Neal tumbling down into the floor. Before Peter even had time to react, Ian raised his arm and slapped Neal as hard as he could across the face with the spatula which, from the sound of pain Neal made, was pretty damn hard. "You will be respectful in my master's house," he said in a harsh voice. "Or you will get out of his home. Do you understand me?"

Peter started forward, ready to grab that fucking spatula and show Ian just how it felt, but Neal held up a hand in his direction, making him pause. For a moment Neal just knelt there, making no attempt to stand, then he carefully slid his hands behind his back and adjusted himself until he was kneeling in one of his "proper" positions.

"Yes, Ian," Neal said quietly, slowly lifting his head to look at the other slave. "I apologize, to both our masters and to you. My behavior was disrespectful and inappropriate. I am ashamed." The words had an almost ritualistic feel to them.

Ian took a step back, then dropped to his knees as well, catching Neal's face in his hands. "You don't have to apologize to me," Ian said softly. "But please be respectful of my master's house in the future. No shame on you."

This was apparently the cue to rise, because they both climbed to their feet, looking much more uncomfortable now than they had when Peter first walked in, as if this was the naughty bit.

They stood awkwardly for a moment, Neal rubbing at his cheek and Ian toying with the spatula, then Ian opened his arms and Neal stepped forward, embracing him.

Peter's brow furrowed a little as he watched them together, wrapped in each other's arms. It wasn't so different from what he'd walked in on—wasn't different at all, in fact—but there was something about it, about the way they held each other, so relaxed and assured, that was… perfect. Like being in each other's arms was the ultimate satisfaction. But not in a sexual way. More like they were two pieces in the same puzzle that fit together, not because they knew each other and not because they liked each other, but because it was simply what they *were.* They were two puzzle pieces that fit together. Simple as that.

It was… weird. Honestly, Peter didn't really know what to think about it.

He didn't have too long to think about it either, since the next thing Peter knew, he was being thrown hard into the wall by a furious looking Jack, a whimpering Toby following along behind him.

What the hell?

"Master," the little boy cried, tears running down his tiny face, "I didn't—"

Peter let out a grunt of pain as Jack slammed him hard against the wall again, flashing his teeth at Peter. "Ian, put Toby to bed," Jack said shortly, not breaking eye contact with Peter.

Ian pulled away from Neal, looking back and forth between Toby and Jack, his eyes wide. "Master, what—"

"Take Toby and put him to bed, Ian!" Jack shouted, glaring at the boy.

Ian began to nod madly, reaching down and scooping a now sobbing Toby up in his arms. "Yes, Master, of course, Master."

"Jack, what the hell is going on?" Rhonda cried out as she entered the kitchen, El right on her heels. Apparently someone had finally made it home, just in time for the big fireworks. Too bad Peter had no idea why they were going off.

"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" Jack spat at Peter, his eyes blazing. "Did you think he wouldn't tell me? I'm his master, Peter! He tells me everything!"

"What?" Peter said, totally confused. "Jack, I have no idea what you're talking about!"

"Don't give me that shit," Jack snapped, grabbing Peter by the shirt and slamming him back against the wall again. "I don't care what kind of kinky crap you have going with your new little pet, Burke. Hell, you can dress him up in drag and call him Tina Turner for all I care. But don't you fucking dare touch *my* slave. He's four years old, Burke, and even if he was twenty, he's not a goddamn fuckling like your little whore. Nobody except Tyler is ever gonna touch him, and sure as hell not your filthy, fat hands when he's a baby! Vice Collar, indeed. You're the one who oughta be behind bars."

"What?" Peter said, shocked. "I never touched him! Jack, I would never! That's disgusting! Even the idea makes me want to puke!"

"Peter would never!" El cut in, grabbing at the back of Jack's shirt and trying to yank him back. "Ever!"

"You think so?" Jack snapped. "Because my baby boy slave just came and told me that he and Master Burke here had a nice little talk about touching in weird places and private parts. Poor kid thought it was *funny.*"

Oh, God. Peter squeezed his eyes shut, a pained look coming over his face. Shit, shit, shit.

"See? He did it!"

"Master Calloway, I swear, my master wouldn't!" Neal's voice was strained. "He doesn't believe in that."

"Says the boy with the butt plug up his ass," Jack snapped.

"What the hell are you talking about?" El snapped. "That's disgusting! Why the hell would you think he has a… God, I can't even say it!"

"A butt plug?" Jack snapped. "Gee, I dunno, because every time he bends over he looks like he's got the shits and he walks like every step is a thousand miles? I know what it looks like when a boy's wearing a butt plug. Just because I don't get it on with little kids doesn't mean I'm an idiot!"

"He's not wearing a," El winced, "butt plug, okay? You don't know what the hell you're talking about! Now let my husband go before I call the police! He is *not* wearing a butt plug!"

"Yeah," Peter put in, though it was kind of hard to talk pressed up against the wall by Jack's big arms, "who's the pervert now? Tell him, Neal!" Peter looked in Neal's direction, eyes widening slightly at the look on his face. His cheeks were on fire, and Peter could practically see the sweat dripping down his forehead.

"Actually," Neal said in a very embarrassed voice, his face somehow managing to go even redder, "I sort of am wearing a butt plug."

If Jack hadn't been about to choke him to death, Peter's mouth probably would have dropped open in disbelief. Luckily, El's dropped open enough to cover both of them.

"You're what?" she said, sounding shocked and appalled.

Jack snorted. "Time to face reality, Elizabeth. Your hubby's a perv. Go ahead, call the police. Then he can explain to his boss why he was trying to fondle my toddler!"

"Master Calloway, he didn't know," Neal said in a desperate voice. “I… I didn't know what you'd want to do with me, so I put it in just in case, so I didn't get hurt if you wanted to fuck me."

"Bullshit," Jack snapped back. "Stop trying to cover for your master, boy. From the second you got here, he made it clear that you weren't the offering of the night. Not that I take those kinds of favors from my gift slaves, mind you. I'm really more of a kitchen duty sort of man. Banging other men's slaves to make myself feel like I have a big cock isn't necessary. I do have a big cock! But I can't blame you for expecting everybody to be a kinky sonofabitch when babysitter Burke here is who you answer to."

"I didn't know what he wanted from me!" Neal protested, reaching out and grabbing at Jack's arm. "Please, believe me. I have no fucking clue what he wants from me at all half the time! Hell, I took it up the ass in his office yesterday and lied about it to him because I was afraid he would be pissed off.”

Wait, what the hell? Took it up the ass in his office? Peter squeezed his eyes shut, a wave of pain rushing through him. He knew something was wrong. He *knew* Neal had been lying. But why the hell had he lied? Was he really still that scared of Peter?

"He's never even *touched* me," Neal continued, voice thick, "even though I want him to, because he's so saintly.” He paused, cocking his head to the side like he was thinking. “Or maybe because I'm so not saintly? I don't know why. But he would never do that to a kid! Please, let him go, Master Calloway. This is my fault."

"It's your fault he asked my boy slave about his private parts?" Jack growled back. "I don't think so."

"I was asking about *you*, asshole!" Peter said, sick of this. He used his shoulder to pry one of Jack's arms up, then grabbed the other man and shoved him as hard as he could, making them both stumble. Jack tipped backward, wrapping his arms around Peter as he fell, dragging him down to the ground with him.

"What the hell do you mean, asking about me?" Jack snapped, using all his strength to roll himself on top of Peter. Peter returned in kind, rolling on top of him.

"I mean, I was asking him if *you* touched him down there, you perverted fuck!"

Jack's mouth dropped open, face red with anger, and he rolled Peter around again, pinning him down. "What do I look like, a fucking pedophile? He's four years old!"

Peter grunted, using his weight to shift himself back on top. Thank God for his high school wrestling coach. "This from the same man who sat right across from me tonight telling me how the poor kid with the feathers on his face whimpered every time you 'used him' for two fucking years? Used him, huh? Where I come from, we call that rape!"

Jack was back on top again. "He's a sex slave, Burke," he snapped. "And whether you knew Bootylicious over there had a dildo up his ass or not, it's obvious you have plenty of X rated thoughts about him. I saw the tent in your pants when you were checking out his abs."

"Oh my God, this is so embarrassing," Rhonda whined out of nowhere.

"Yeah, well, Bootylicious over there isn't a fucking kid like Feathers is!" Peter snapped back, rolling himself on top once more. Man, he was sweating like a pig. "He's a grown man! Boy! Whatever! Point is, he's not a crying, whimpering child! Why shouldn't I think you were doing sick things with Toby, too?"

"Please tell me that my husband did not just call Neal 'Bootylicious.'" El sounded pained.

“Don’t worry, Ms. El,” Neal replied dryly, “that’s another one that I will *not* be answering to.”

“He’s not a whimpering, crying child, maybe," Jack snapped and, oh yeah, he was on top again. Damn, if they didn't quit doing this, Peter was gonna get dizzy. "But he’s just as broken and scared as Ian was back when I got him! Maybe he don't have it tattooed on his fucking face, but he's as fucked up as my boy, any day! God, do you give the poor slave any relief? Does he have any other slaves to interact with at all, or do you just starve him, keeping him cut off from his own kind so you can watch him angst? I saw him hanging off my boy, and I saw how scared he was when you came in and freaked out! Are you so jealous you won't even allow him to touch other slaves? And then you won't touch him, either? Does he ever get touched by anybody at all?"

Jack shook his head, a sadness rolling across his face for a moment before it was back to pissed.

"No wonder he goes off on you and acts like a disrespectful shit, even in another man's house!" Jack shouted, smacking the tile by Peter's head for emphasis. 

“Actually, Master Calloway,” Neal said, sounding embarrassed, “it’s sort of a natural talent. I was acting like a disrespectful shit long before I actually met Agent Burke.” 

Peter wasn’t sure if Jack actually didn’t hear Neal or if he was just pulling a ‘master’ and pretending the slave hadn’t spoken, but he continued on in his rant with hardly a pause. “The poor kid’s starving for attention, and you give him zip. Another man used him, and he was so afraid you'd be angry someone touched him that he didn't even tell you! Some master you are! You want to talk about rape? You're raping his fucking heart! If you won't love him, at least give him permission to visit other slaves in the neighborhood and get attention from somebody! Slaves need attention, Burke, just like any living thing!"

Peter stared up at the man's angry face, grimacing a little as sweat from Jack's forehead dripped onto his own. What the fuck?

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said finally, heart pounding in his chest.

Jack rolled his eyes. "Oh, fuck you—"

"No, really, I have no idea what you're talking about," Peter interrupted, breath still coming fast. "What do you mean, allow him to touch other slaves? We don't have any other slaves! And I don't touch him because it's *wrong.* It's wrong to force someone to do that!"

The other man's brow furrowed. "What, to fuck you? He's a sex slave, Peter. It's what they do. But shit, even if you don't want to bang him, you can at least hold him. He seems like a good enough boy, when he's not desperate for attention and willing to take it any way he can get it. Why would you cut him off like that? You wouldn't do that to… shit, what's your dog's weird name?"

"Satchmo," Peter said. "But Neal's not a dog."

Jack snorted. "You know, Burke, I never took you as one who would think so little of his slaves. I'd put both my boys before a set of paws with a waggy tail any day. Your boy isn't even on level with your dog? What do you think he is, a goddamn suitcase?"

"What? No!" Peter pushed himself up on his elbows, and Jack sat up, wiping at his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. "I meant, he's a human being, not a dog! You don't go around feeling people up without their permission."

"So, what, he's supposed to come ask you?" Jack snapped back. "Oh, Master," he said in a girly voice, batting his lashes. "Will you come give me a hug, pleeease?" He snorted, shaking his head. "Not gonna happen. You have to read their body language, Burke. Look at him, standing over there looking scared as shit. You think he'd be so scared if you'd go wrap your arm around him? Give him a little squeeze that says everything's okay? I bet not. But if you're not willing to do it, at least let him spend time with his own kind. You have a homeowner's association, right? Let him go work for the HOA a couple of hours a week, spend some time with other slaves in the neighborhood. Slaves are social creatures. They need somebody to spend time with. If you won't take care of him, let go of the jealousy let someone else do it for you. Didn't you see how bad he needed Ian tonight?"

Peter glanced over at Neal, who was sort of hovering off to the side, his eyes flitting back and forth between Peter and the floor. "I… You mean slaves… They like spending time together?" The words seemed dumb once he said them—why wouldn't they like spending time together?—but the truth was that it had never even crossed his mind.

"Of course they do," Jack said, rolling his eyes. "They got their own culture, you know. Weird as shit, but there you go. The old ones teach the young ones, they help each other out, even gossip a little, from what I hear."

"I told him that if he wants to date someone, he can," Peter said, wiping his own brow on the hem of his t-shirt.

"Date someone? What the hell? Is *that* what you thought was going down in the kitchen?" Jack shook his head, looking more amused than upset now. "They were just hugging, man. Slaves do it all the time, when we're not looking, obviously. Or when they think we're not looking. They understand each other. I mean, do you understand how their minds work? 'Cause I sure as hell don't. But they understand each other, so why not let them have some time together? What's it hurt? Hell, I've found it makes them better slaves. A little compassion goes a long way."

Peter looked over at Neal again. His eyes were now firmly affixed to the tile.

"Master?"

Jack glanced up at the timid voice, smiling at Ian, who was hovering in the doorway, looking frightened. "Hey, it's okay," Jack said in a soothing voice. "Come here, boy." He held out an arm and Ian moved over, kneeling down so the man could give him a hug. "Sorry I yelled. Master Peter and I had a little… miscommunication."

To say the least.

Ian licked his lips nervously. "Yeah, Toby said. Master, I don't think Master Burke did anything. Toby didn't know what he was talking about." He paused, eyes dropping to the floor and shoulders tensing. "But… I can explain it to him, Master. If you want." His voice came out soft, barely more than a whisper. It was obvious that was *not* what he wanted to be saying. "Most slaves at least know by his age what that means."

"No, no, definitely not," Jack said with a chuckle, ruffling the kid's hair. "He can have that talk at the same time Tyler does, which will hopefully not be for another thirty years or so."

Ian looked up, giving him a shaky smile. "I suppose we can hope, Master."

"Yeah, I'd rather my kid not co-star on '16 and Pregnant,'" Jack said dryly, and Ian laughed this time.

"Yeah, me neither, Master. I'm thinking all boy's school, sir."

"Oh, I am so with you there, baby," Jack said, leaning over and giving him a kiss on the forehead. "Now, my little miracle worker, do you think there is any way of salvaging the dinner you worked so hard on all day? You know I love your cooking."

Ian blushed. "I'll have to warm up the side dishes, but I left the roast in the oven, Master. I can have it ready in ten minutes, fifteen tops."

"Okay, go work your wonders," Jack said, and Ian stood, immediately retreating to the stove. Peter didn't miss the small little squeeze he gave Neal's hand as he walked by, however.

Jack stood up, offering his hand to Peter. "Truce?"

"Truce," Peter agreed, wincing as he climbed to his feet. "Man, I am way too old for wrestling matches."

"You're both too old," El replied, looking irritated. "Will someone please tell me what's wrong with simple *talking*? Is there something in your man genes that prevents it? I really don't get it."

"It's a boy's club secret," Jack replied dryly, smirking when his wife glared at him. "What?"

"You just assaulted our *guest*, Jack," she said through gritted teeth.

The man shrugged. "Hey, I thought he was assaulting my slave, okay? But hey, we're good, right man?"

"Yeah, we're good," Peter said, rubbing his sore arm.

"So… anybody up for dinner?" Jack asked.

"Well, I could use a glass of wine, that's for sure," Rhonda muttered, and El laughed.

"I second that motion," she said.

"Well, come on, ladies, and I'll pour you a glass," Jack said, beckoning them toward the living room.

"I'll be there in a second," Peter said when the man looked at him, glancing pointedly over at Neal. Jack gave a short nod and followed the women out of the room.

Neal was still staring hard at the tile, like it held the answer to the universe or something. His shoulders were hunched, arms wrapped protectively around himself, which made his biceps bulge in a very enticing way. Not that Peter was thinking about that or anything.

Peter took a deep breath as he walked toward him, gently putting a hand on his slave's arm. "Hey," he said quietly.

Neal swallowed hard, rolling his eyes up to look at Peter. "I'm sorry I lied to you, Master," he said softly, and Peter sighed, a flash of pain washing over him as Neal's desperate words rang through his head.

"Let's not talk about that right now, okay?" he said quietly. "Neal… was Jack right?"

Neal frowned, looking confused, then embarrassed. "You mean about the butt plug thing? Yeah, he was right."

Peter winced. "No, not about the… ugh. I meant, was he right about the whole… touching thing? Do you… do you want me to touch you? Because it seems like, a lot of the time, when I try, you flinch away."

"I know," Neal said, cheeks going red. "I don't mean to, I swear I don't, Master." He locked his bright blue eyes with Peter's. "I'm just not used to being touched in ways that don't hurt, you know? Not… not anymore."

"But you do want me to touch you?" Peter asked, not quite sure what Neal was saying.

"Yes," Neal said, then he frowned. "No. But, yes. I don't want to be touched, because it's hard to remember what it's like to be touched in a good way. But I do want to be touched, I just don't really know how to do it without being afraid anymore." He made a face. "God, that sounded ridiculous. I'm being ridiculous. I really am Mr. Cuddles. Shit, I'm sorry, Master." He straightened up, his hundred watt smile flashed into place, and he was Neal Caffrey, king of the con once again. "Just another night that I've managed to turn into a mess." His voice had gone carefree and teasing, as if nothing had happened at all. Man, he was good. "Talk about a track record, huh? And here you thought the fun was gonna end when you caught me—ump!"

Peter wrapped his arms tightly around the slave, pulling him close to his chest. At first Neal was stiff against him, but after a moment his body relaxed and Peter felt Neal bury his face in his neck. They just stood there for a couple of minutes, then Neal's arms slowly wrapped around Peter's waist, fingers tracing along the waist of his jeans and up along his back. Peter gave a sad smile as he felt wet droplets begin to run down his neck, and he pulled the slave tighter against him, rubbing his back in what he hoped was a soothing way.

"Shhh, it's okay, Neal," he whispered. "We're going to be alright. I promise, we're going to be alright."


	22. Human(e) Society

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter learns about rescue slaves, El tears up over cupcakes, and Neal explains why he didn't fight the hat stealer.

Wow, talk about some uncomfortable silence going on. Even the four year old had his lips zipped, as if he sensed the tension in the room. Probably did. It would be hard not to at this point.

Rhonda was fiddling with her fork, wiping at it absently, while El swished the wine in her glass for about the thousandth time and Jack inspected his beer bottle for cracks, or possibly a magical message from God. Peter was pretty on the edge himself, rearranging the napkin on his lap every few seconds or so. Eventually somebody was going to have to step up to the plate and break the ice, but Peter was not planning to volunteer.

Man, his arm really ached. Jack had a freaking death grip when he thought you were molesting his four year old boy-slave.

"I get mac and cheese?"

Every adult at the table jumped at the words, disturbed from their various forms of awkward avoidance by a grinning Tyler waving his hands at an Ian who had appeared out of thin air.

"Yes, little Master," Ian said in a patient voice. "You'll get mac and cheese." His eyes darted over toward Rhonda. "*After* you eat your peas, of course."

Tyler giggled in a way that made it sound like there was some joke there that Peter hadn't caught. "Okay, Uncle Ian!"

The face Ian made would have been funny if the tattoos hadn't made it look so weird. "Master Tyler, what have I said about calling me that?"

The little boy stuck his lower lip out. "Can I call you my other Daddy? Mickey has two daddies!"

Rhonda made a sound of amusement, and Jack held back a snort, covering his mouth with his hand, obviously trying not to laugh out loud.

Ian let out a loud sigh, looking embarrassed. "Master, that's different. I've told you. They really are both his daddies. He doesn't have a mommy." He cleared his throat, turning his attention to the table. "Um, I'm warming up the side dishes. Do you want me to bring the salad out so you can start, Master, or just finish heating up the food?"

"You can bring it all out at once, Ian," Jack said, giving the kid a smile. "No hurry."

Ian ducked his head and disappeared back into the kitchen.

"Does that bother you?" El asked, sounding curious.

"What?" Jack said, glancing over at her.

"That Tyler wants to call him 'daddy'?" she asked, and Peter winced a little at the question. El was usually pretty sensitive about what subjects she brought up and, personally, Peter would have steered away from this one. Of course it bothered him! It would bother Peter, anyway.

"Hm? Oh, nah, it doesn't bother me at all," Jack said, much to Peter's surprise. "He knows who his dad is when he wants something from me. Ian raised the little brat," he said, waving a hand at Tyler, who grinned and waved back. "Made him bottles, switched him to baby food, changed his diapers, potty trained him, helped him take his first dang steps—"

"That was me," Rhonda cut in, looking a little upset. "He took his first steps with me."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Yeah, so Ian told you."

"I take care of my son, Jack," Rhonda said sharply, then turned to El. "Just so you know, it *does* bother *me*. That slave is not his father, is not even a part of this family—"

"Here we go again," Jack said, rolling his eyes. "He is a part of this family, Rhon. Has been for years. Just because your snooty friends go through slaves like potato chips doesn't make the boy any less a part of this household."

The look on Rhonda's face was not pretty. Yikes. Obviously this conversation needed to be steered in another direction. Fast.

"So you got him from a rescue, huh?" Peter stepped in, hoping to bring down the tension a little. "I've never been to a rescue. How did that happen?"

Jack shrugged. "Well, one of the city planners called me in to inspect the facility. I usually do drop ins on restaurants, occasionally food processing plants, that sort of thing, but my bud Larry who does pet shops, humane societies, that kind of thing, was out of town and there'd been some complaints in the neighborhood about unsanitary conditions. Something about dogs sitting in their own crap and what not. You know people can't stand to see sad puppies."

"Dogs?" Peter said, confused. "I thought this was, like, a slave rescue?"

Jack frowned. "I dunno if they have just slave rescues. I mean, this one took in slaves if they found 'em on the street. Ian's master gave him to this place, though. Thought he had brain damage, but didn't want to pay to euthanize him or have the guts to do it himself. Or maybe he just didn't want to have to call the city to come pick up the body." He shrugged. "Place was a disgusting mess. Poor dogs. Ugh, and it smelled like cat piss everywhere. Gave 'em a three thousand dollar fine."

"So how did you end up taking Ian home?" El asked, looking interested.

"Well," Jack said, taking a sip of his beer, "I was walking through the place, making notes, and I see this kid in one of the cages. Next to him is the skinniest mamma dog I've ever seen, and a whole bunch of little babies that are on the edge of death. There were at least two in there that were dead already, had been for awhile. You could smell 'em."

Rhonda made a face. "You can skip the dirty details, babe," she said.

"Of course, the kid is skinny as hell, too, and butt naked, totally covered in scars. He's got a dish of water in there with him and a plate with some of that packaged freeze-dried food SlaveMart puts out, but is he eating it? No, he's reaching out of his cage, into the next one, feeding it to mamma dog, piece by piece. So I squat down in front of the cage, and I'm all 'Hey, boy, what the hell are you doing? Don't give that to the damn dog. Eat it yourself!' And he looks right at me with these big, sad blue eyes, and that wing tattooed across his face, and he says to me, 'She's got babies, sir.' As if that was all the answer needed."

Rhonda gave a small smile. "Ian really is the essence of a mommy bear."

Jack chuckled. "He is. I'm looking at this kid like he's nuts, giving what little he's got to some lost cause of a dog, and he's looking at me like *I'm* nuts, because I wouldn't give my last bite to a bitch with pups that might as well be dead already. Then the guy running the shelter finds me and starts blabbering on about how if I just let it go this one time, he'll make sure the shelter's in pristine condition next time, blah, blah, blah, and I get hauled off to his office. Then, about an hour later, I'm packing up to go, and I glance in the vet room, and they've got Ian strapped to a table, a needle in their damn hands."

"Oh my God," Peter said, eyes widening.

"I know," Jack said, shaking his head. "All I can see are those big blue eyes looking up at me… 'She's got *babies,* sir.' Ugh. I knew I couldn't let this happen. So I barge in there, demanding to know what's up, and they tell me that they don't have enough cages to keep up my sanitary conditions, and slaves are the hardest to take care of, so they're putting him down."

"So you stopped them," El said, and Jack nodded.

"Yeah. I mean, I had to promise to take him home. Hell, I had to pay the hundred dollar adoption fee, but we had a baby on the way, and this one obviously had a thing for playing nanny, so…" Jack shrugged. "His papers were obviously faked, with nothing listed at all before his twelfth birthday the year before, which obviously meant he had spent his whole life as a fuckling. I brought him home, and he's been here ever since."

"Not the worst investment ever made," Rhonda admitted. "I mean, we knew I'd be going back to work eventually after the baby was born, and we were planning to get the nanny/companion child package, but despite his lack of training, Ian was a natural with the kids. Not," she said sharply, glancing over at her husband, "that it makes Tyler any less *our* son."

"I never said it did," Jack said, rolling his eyes. "Of course, back then, his name wasn't Ian." He chuckled. "Man, what was it, babe?"  
"Titillation," she said, looking amused.

Jack let out a laugh. "That's right. Like hell was I gonna shout out, 'Hey, Titillation, did you take out the trash?"

"Wow," Peter said, shaking his head. "That's horrible. Ian is definitely better."

"He's named after my granddad's farm slave," Jack replied.

"Your grandfather had slaves?" Peter asked. That would have been years before SlaveMart was around.

"Why do you think he's so liberal about them?" Rhonda said, shaking her head. "You'd think that growing up around them would make a man a stricter master, but obviously that's not Jack."

"I don't know anybody who grew up around slaves who treats them like your friends do," Jack said, a little sourly. Obviously this was a tender subject between the two. "We'd go out to Gramps' ranch and old Ian would take us fishing in the pond and into the woods to collect nuts and berries. He taught us how run a trout line and track deer. He made us a tree fort out of scrap wood on his free time, when he could have been cooling off in the pond or catching rabbits for his own dinner. A good slave, that one. Loyal to the very end."

"Because he didn't have any opportunity not to be," Rhonda said, frowning. "That's what you're missing, Jack. Back then, there were no standards. Training slaves was a guessing game. There wasn't even any protocol! Slaves today are properly trained to perform certain functions to the best of their ability. Maybe you have fond memories of your grandfather's slave, but I bet if your granddad had a choice between old Ian and the farm slaves you can get today, he'd jump at the chance for stronger, better stock who can do twice the work in half the time."

Jack returned her frown. "Okay, sure, maybe some kid who's spent his whole life working hard jobs eighteen hours a day, who's too afraid to take a break when he's exhausted or get a drink of water when he's dehydrated, could get more done than the slaves we had, but that doesn't make 'em loyal. It makes 'em machines, and machines break down. One time when I was a kid, I decided it would be fun to take Gramps' truck for a drive. I drove his pickup right into a ditch. Gramps could be quite the mean one when he pleased, and he would have tanned my hide, but before I could even admit what I'd done, Ian stepped up and took the blame. Got the skin flayed off his back for that, and I still don't understand why he did it. But it taught me more about taking responsibility for my actions than any punishment Gramps could have given me. It taught me that, sometimes, when you do stupid things, it's other people who get hurt, so you'd better be careful. Old Ian… he was loyal, and that's worth a hundred SlaveMart knock offs, in my opinion."

"Funny," Peter said, "one of my agents said pretty much the same thing. She was a diplomat's kid, and she said her parents' slaves practically raised her, and that they were part of the family."

"My family are ranchers, so we've always had slaves, and my old man taught me you get good slaves by being a good master," Jack replied. "These big box slaves are crap because they're treated like crap. It's like having a car. You wouldn't go for years and never get the oil changed and it all be fine. You wouldn't expect it to run with no fuel. You wouldn't slice all your tires because you got a flat on the side of the road or beat your hood in with a pipe because it got a scratch. You wouldn't leave your car out in the rain and then get mad at it when it's dirty in the morning. You're responsible for taking care of your own damn property. What people expect from slaves these days is totally nonsensical. Okay, he fell down and skinned his knee. That made you so mad that you whipped him until he's bleeding all over? Am I the only one who sees the irony in that?"

"Some people don't want to invest that much time and effort, Jack," Rhonda said, shaking her head. "You need to learn to accept that not everybody sees training slaves as a hobby. If they wanted a pet, they'd get a dog. Modern trainers produce slaves that know their place and do their jobs. What's wrong with that?"

"I think the real question is, what methods are they using to do it?" Peter said thoughtfully. "Okay, fine, you're putting out slaves that know their places and do their jobs… But what do you have to do to the slaves to get those results? Torture them? How far is too far? When does it become inhumane?”

"I don't know that I'd go so far as to say they torture them, Peter," El said, though he could tell from the look on her face that she didn't completely believe her own words. "I mean, obviously they do things very differently from us, but torture kind of implies an intent to harm for its own sake, doesn't it? The trainers don't hurt them for the fun of it, they really are looking for a result."

"Look, I believe it's okay to own slaves," Jack said. "I believe that they are your property and you can do with them what you want—to an extent. But I also believe there are certain things you're not allowed to do to your property. There are laws about how you can alter your cars, laws about what you can do to your house, laws about what animals you can keep and how they're kept. I don't believe that you should be able to throw your slaves away like trash. If you want to do something to them, you should have to live with the consequences of those actions."

"How would you make that happen?" El asked, looking over at Jack curiously.

"Here we go," Rhonda murmured, shaking her head as she took another sip of wine.

"I feel like that if you are going to purchase a slave, you should have to pay some kind of tax or fee to make sure you aren't just buying on a whim," Jack said seriously. "I believe you should need a permit to own slaves, and that you should have to register every slave you own. Maybe if we made it just a tiny bit tougher to get a slave, people would treat them with a little more respect. After all, it's one thing to pick one up on the cheap at SlaveMart, drive it to the edge of insanity with your sick games, then dump it at a shelter, but what if you actually had to put some real effort into getting that slave to begin with? I don't think people would be so quick to hurt them then. I also think it should be harder to get rid of your slaves. I think that if you want to euthanize your pet, you should have to file a request with the state, or at the very least that there should be a waiting period of, say, seventy-two hours. Like getting married, it isn't something you should do on a whim."

"I would definitely agree with that," Peter said. "Some of the things I've seen at Vice Collar would rattle your bones. If slaves weren't so easy to get, I really believe we wouldn't have as many on the black market."

"Was Neal from the black market?" Jack asked curiously.

Peter shook his head, giving the man a sheepish grin. "More like he was a part of the black market. This is probably a shocker, but Neal was actually quite the criminal mastermind, despite being a slave."

"He was a criminal?" Rhonda said, sounding more than a little disturbed by the idea, and El reached out, patting her on the arm as she shot Peter a warning glance.

"He was just a forger, sweetie. More of an artist than a criminal, really." She smiled, and the woman relaxed a little.

"Yeah," Peter agreed quickly, wincing a little. He hadn't meant to scare the woman. "He never hurt anybody."

"I like slaves," Tyler said happily, tapping his hands on the table as he put in his two cents. "My favorite people are slaves! We play slaves sometimes, and I get to serve the dinner to Bubba Bear and Miss Piggy and Wolverine while Toby makes the cake."

Rhonda sighed. "Honey, remember what we said about playing slaves? That's not a good game to play, because Toby is a slave, so it's not pretend for him."

"But it's a fun game!" Tyler said, grinning broadly. "When I'm a good slave, I get a sticker! And when I'm a bad slave, I gotta sit in the toy box."

Wow. That was… wow.

"So you want to be a slave when you grow up?" Peter said, rather amused by the idea. Rhonda shot him a dirty look, but screw her. This was both amusing and fascinating.

"Nah," Tyler said, shaking his head. "I don't like having to eat the yucky food and be all quiet and get spankings when I'm bad, but Bubba Bear's a fun master."

Well, as long as Bubba Bear was a fun master.

"Dinner is served, Master," came Ian's soft voice from the doorway, and the kid walked in with a pot roast as big as he was while Neal followed with a tray that barely fit through the door, covered in various dishes.

Damn, that was a lot of food, and boy did it smell good. Maybe Peter really did need to find out what Neal could do in the kitchen.

o o o

Neal leaned heavily against the kitchen table as he watched Ian hard at work transferring about a thousand different side dishes into Tupperware bowls, a small smile on his face.

"You always make enough food for fifty, Ian?" Neal asked, and Toby giggled.

"Ian cooks lots of stuff. Sometimes he gives me carrots."

"Because carrots are good for you," Ian said, turning around and giving the boy a stern look. "You're growing, and you need more vitamins than you can get from slave food, but don't think that means that you can start sneaking food, little one."

"I wouldn't!" Toby said, looking a little hurt by the accusation. "You know I'd never steal from Master. I love Master. He's my daddy."

Neal winced. Not good. This was one of the biggest downsides of being raised by an individual. *Too* much attachment to Master. Then, when they got sold, it broke them to pieces.

"Dear Lord," Ian muttered. "I don't know what is with them tonight… Toby, Master is *not* your daddy. He's Tyler's daddy. Have you two been talking about this or something?"

"Master Tyler said he doesn't want Master to be his daddy because he put icky milk in his Apple Jacks, so Master can be my daddy instead."

"You don't have a daddy, Toby," Neal said, frowning at the little boy. "Slaves don't have daddies. You have a master. Don't mix them up, because they're not the same."

"But if Master Tyler doesn't want Master as his daddy, how come I can't have him?" Toby whined, pouting a little.

"Because you're not important like that," Neal said, rubbing tiredly at his forehead. He took back what he'd said about it being neat to be owned by a family—it was a freaking headache. "Master doesn't love you, he owns you."

Toby's shoulders slumped. "Yeah," he said in a little voice, "I know."

"I love you, though," Ian said, giving the boy a smile.

"I wish I was Master Tyler."

Neal sucked in a sharp breath, looking away, and Ian stared at the boy for a long moment before pointedly turning back to his dishes and pots. There really wasn't a lot to say to that other than 'in your dreams, kid.'

"So, Neal… You want to take in dessert?"

o o o

"That was delicious," El said as she leaned back, smiling at their hosts. It was kind of hard to keep smiling after all the catastrophes of the evening, but she was good at what she did. Truthfully, despite her big grin, she was more than ready to get home. This evening had been very eye opening, but she was ready for it to be over with.

Of course, going home would mean confronting Neal about a certain toy in a certain place that she didn't even want to think about. Not to mention that Peter was going to kill her when he found out she knew about what had happened to poor Neal and didn't tell him. There was still drama to be had tonight.

Man, she really just wanted to go home and climb in bed for possibly forever.

"Oh, my goodness, those are beautiful!"

El was jerked out of her thoughts by Rhonda's words, blinking in surprise when she saw Neal hovering less than a foot away, holding the tray of cupcakes. Goodness gracious, these slaves sure could lurk. She hadn't even noticed him walking up to the table, and she was seated farthest from the kitchen door.

"They're from Rainbows and Buttercupcakes," El said as she admired them herself. "Aren't they amazing?"

"They're gorgeous," Rhonda gushed, and El was pretty sure she saw Jack rolling his eyes in Peter's direction. Men. They just didn't appreciate real art when they saw it.

"I can have the turtle?" Tyler asked, looking excited as he gazed at the cupcakes. "A turtle for me?"

Neal glanced over at Rhonda, a small smile appearing on his lips as she nodded. "Yes, a turtle for the little master," he said a little dramatically as he picked up the turtle cupcake and gently set it down on Tyler's dessert plate, followed by a sippy cup full of milk that had been hiding at the back of the tray.

"Yay!" Tyler said, clapping his hands together, eyes shining like this was the best day of his life. "I get the turtle!" He looked over his shoulder, flashing a smile. "Toby, come see my turtle!"

El hadn't even realized Toby was in the room, but he must have been hiding behind Tyler's chair because an instant later his little head appeared over the table.

"He's a good turtle," Toby said admiringly, inspecting it with a smile. "I like his racing stripes."

"He's a fast turtle," Tyler replied solemnly. "But not fast enough!" He grabbed for the cupcake, laughing as he dug his hand into it, pulling off one of the turtle's legs and stuffing it into his mouth. "Yummy!"

"Would you like any one in particular, Mistress?" Neal said in a soft voice.

El gave him a smile. "Any of them is fine."

Neal bit his lip, studying the tray. "How about this one?" he said, picking up one with a big, grinning puppy on it. "It looks like Satch." He paused, lowering his voice like he was telling a secret. "Or the doggie version of Master."

El giggled, taking it. "It's Puppy Peter."

Peter snorted. "Oh, hush." He reached out, holding his hand out impatiently. "Alright, give 'em up, Neal. I've been waiting all night for this."

"He really likes his cupcakes," El said dryly, making Rhonda and Jack chuckle.

Neal deposited the little frog with the crown Peter had been going for earlier in his hand, and her hubbie let out a triumphant laugh.

"Oh, yes!"

"I'll take the flamingo," Rhonda said as Neal showed her the tray.

"Just give me one that's tasty, and I'm good," Jack said, sharing a laugh with Peter.

El would have laughed, too, if her attention hadn't been caught by the saddest sight she'd ever seen right across the table from her. Commercials about villages in Africa and children's hospitals were nothing compared to seeing a little boy with so much possibility but so little hope up close in person.

Toby's big eyes were locked on Tyler as the boy continued to tear into his turtle, frosting and chocolate cake all over his face and hands. He was grinning brightly, like everything was wonderful, but the look in his eyes was just so… wistful. It wasn't as if he was flat out sad or angry or upset or any other emotion you might expect to see from a toddler who was told he wasn't getting a treat. It was like he was wishing upon on a star, knowing full well that his dreams would never come true, that it wasn't meant to come true, and that he'd never be the lucky one with the yummy cupcake and the promising future.

It wasn't helping her appetite at all.

"Rhonda, would it be okay if Neal gave one to Toby?" El asked suddenly. From the way everyone was staring at her, she had a feeling that she'd cut someone off mid-sentence, but those sad blue eyes had stolen her attention and her heart.

Rhonda tapped the table, looking uncomfortable. "We don't usually give sugary treats to Toby, Elizabeth," she said, giving her a tight smile. "It's not good for his teeth, you know."

Oh, well, if it wasn't good for his *teeth*…

"Yeah, I just feel weird that Tyler gets a cupcake and Toby doesn't," El said, frowning. "I mean, he's a little boy."

"He can clean my plate," Tyler said, and Toby perked up, a hopeful look blooming on his face. "Can he clean my plate, Mom?"

Rhonda sighed, glancing over at El. "Okay, he can clean your plate, Tyler. This time."

"Yay!" Tyler grinned as he stuffed the last piece of cupcake in his mouth—though at least a third of the thing was still stuck to his face in some way—and pushed his mostly empty dessert plate toward Toby. Most of the crumbs were on Tyler's hands, so all that was really left on the plate was a small smear of green frosting and one little shred of cake that had managed to get stuck in it, but Toby took it like it was the best thing in the world.

The little boy carefully used his finger to wipe the frosting off the plate, then stuck it into his mouth, a euphoric look coming over his face as he sucked on it.

All in all, it really pissed Elizabeth off.

"That's all he gets?" she snapped, her voice harsher than usual. It was just hard to remain so calm with this sad little boy right in front of her. "I know he's a slave, but slaves need to eat! How can you make them cook all day, serve us dinner, then not get to reap any of the benefits? Is Ian even going to get a bite of that wonderful meal he worked so hard to make for us? I mean, fifteen side dishes? The boy could be a catering company all on his own."

"We feed our slaves," Jack said, sounding a little defensive. "We buy high quality slave food, top of the line vitamins, and we let Toby eat vegetables and superfoods. I don't know how you plan to feed Neal, but we don't starve our boys."

"Sugar is bad for you," Rhonda added. "We don't feed our slaves food that will harm their health. No sugar, no white flour, no high fructose corn syrup. Only the slave food you can get at Whole Foods and all natural vitawater."

"But you'll eat food that's bad for you," El said flatly, and Jack sighed.

"Yeah, we will. Unfortunately for our life spans. But we don't have to feed it to our slaves."

El picked up the cupcake off her plate, inspecting it with a frown. The smiling puppy seemed more sad than happy now, its big grin gone all wistful.

"Eat this, Neal," El said shortly, holding it out, and Neal made a sound of confusion.

"Excuse me, Mistress?"

"Eat this," she said simply, waving the cupcake to emphasize her point. "Eat the cupcake."

Neal glanced around nervously, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Mistress," he said in a low voice, "I don't know that it would be appropriate." He glanced over at Rhonda. "I wouldn't want to upset our hosts…"

El took a deep breath, forcing herself to be calm. He was right, of course. There was no point in doing something that would upset everyone, including Neal, just to drive home a point and make herself feel better, though the idea of throwing Rhonda's hypocrisy back in her face was awfully tempting. Pressing it wouldn't make anything better though, and it would only make their slave's night worse, so El slowly lowered the cupcake back to her plate, noting the relieved look on Neal's face.

"Maybe we ought to go now," she said softly, "I'm sorry, Jack, Rhonda, but this whole culture has come as a really big shock to Peter and I. We're having a very hard time understanding it, much less accepting it. I think maybe we need some time to process the things we've learned here tonight."

"Of course, El," Jack said, giving her a slightly forced smile. "I understand. Please, though, don't go home thinking we don't care about our slaves, because we do. No, our boys don't eat at our table or do whatever they please, but that's because they're slaves. No one thinks it's strange when you stand for the President or when people call the Queen 'Your Majesty.' Some people deserve more innate respect than others. My slaves call me Master because I'm their master. They don't expect to be my children, because they're not. It seems to me that you are both working off the presupposition that all human beings are equal, something that is simply not evidenced in history. Name one single society where every person was truly equal. It's simply a dream. There are social divides, always have been and always will be, and to deny that is to delude yourself. It's not reality."

El dropped her eyes, the words hitting home a little harder than she expected. Jack was right, to an extent. People were not equal. Still, the idea of someone being born into a certain class with no hope of ever escaping it irked at her. It reminded her of things like racism and sexism and other 'isms' that were simply wrong.

"May I collect your plates?" Neal said, sounding a little stressed, and El looked up to give him a smile.

"Yes, of course, thank you, Neal. Wrap up that cupcake for me, would you? I think I'll eat it when we get home."

o o o

The car ride home was as tense as the one over had been, or perhaps even worse since Peter now knew for a fact why Neal was making faces every time he moved around. None of the things that had happened this evening were something Peter wanted to have to deal with while driving, however, so he let the silence be.

All too soon they were home, though, and the events of tonight could no longer be avoided. Peter was worn out, with a sore shoulder and an aching knee, but he wasn't willing to let the things that had happened sit overnight.

Neal had disobeyed Peter flat out by refusing to admit to what had happened at work, despite the promise of punishment if he didn't comply, and Peter could not let that go, as much as he might want to when taking the sensitive topic into consideration.

The fact was, however, that Neal was his personal responsibility as a slave, not as a man, at least when it came to the legal sense of it all, and if he was willing to lie to the Peter who was his master, then what would he be willing to do with the Peter who was merely his partner? Maybe the goal was to work up to a point where he and Neal could be friends, but that would never happen if he couldn't trust Neal to follow orders.

Not that Peter didn't understand why the slave had lied. He had been raped, for God's sake, and Peter could only imagine how humiliating it must have been. No, Peter couldn't imagine, it was such a foreign concept to him as a strong and powerful man. But understanding the reasoning behind a crime didn't excuse it.

"Go to your room, Neal," Peter said the moment the front door shut behind them, avoiding his slave's eyes as he tossed the car keys onto the coffee table. "I'll be up in a minute."

Neal opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it again without speaking, giving a short nod. "Yes, Master," he whispered, so low that Peter could barely hear it, and he turned to make his way up the stairs.

Once he had disappeared from sight, Peter turned back to El, reaching out and wrapping her in his arms, squeezing her tight against his body.

"What am I going to do?" he questioned, voice cracking a little. "I don't know what to do. I can't believe… that… happened and he didn't tell me. Is he really that afraid of me? I don't understand."

El looked up at him, a nervous look on her face. "Hon, I have something to confess," she said softly, and Peter frowned down at her. "What?"

She bit her lip, blue eyes looking unusually shiny. "Neal told me what happened, this morning, but he made me promise not to tell you."

Peter stared at her in disbelief. She had known about this and kept it a *secret* from him? "What?"

El's cheeks went red. "I'm sorry, hon," she said softly. "But I promised, and I couldn't break his trust." She held up a finger to his lips as he opened them to protest. "We'll talk about it later, okay, after this calms down. But there's one thing you really need to understand before you go up there."

"What's that?" Peter asked, still not sure how he felt about his wife keeping a secret like this from him. Sure, he understood that she had to stand by her word, but something like this… It still kind of hurt that she hadn't told him.

"Neal honestly thinks that the man who hurt him did nothing wrong," she said, and Peter could tell that the shine in her eyes was definitely tears. "He really, truly believes that slaves can't be raped, and he thinks what happened was his fault. I think that's why he was so afraid to tell you. Not because he thought that you, in particular, would blame him for what happened and be angry, but because he assumes *anyone* would blame him for what happened and be angry."

Peter dropped his head, the words sending an ache through his heart. God, that was horrible. Poor Neal. This whole situation was just… horrible.

"Okay," Peter said softly, giving his wife one last hug then taking a step back. "I'm going to go talk to him."

"Good luck," she said softly, giving him a tight smile.

"Thanks," Peter replied hoarsely. "I think I'm going to need it."

o o o

Neal sat in his cage, staring hard at his knees. He had stripped down to nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs before he'd climbed in, though he'd left the plug up his ass. Peter was no doubt angry that Neal had put it up there without permission, so he should be the one who decided what to do with it.

Hopefully Peter would take Neal's state of undress as a physical sign of submission. At this point, he was practically drowning in his own shit, so it certainly wouldn't hurt to be as clear as possible that he understood and accepted his place. Not that lying to Peter about the hat stealer was a good example of that.

Peter had stripped down Neal's cage to two sides of bars, a long and a short, and two solid sides before he'd brought it up to the room earlier that evening, but Neal had removed the solid sides, not feeling worthy of the small luxury. He might have actually used the extra sides to make the cage smaller, had his master not dumped all the cage's accessories at the curb. After locking himself in, Neal had purposely slid the key out of his reach, leaving it for Peter to decide whether or not Neal would be coming out tonight. Part of him hoped that he wouldn't, despite how uncomfortable it was sitting in this cage with a dildo up his ass, because coming out definitely meant it was punishment time.

On the other hand, he might as well get it over with. Neal was going to be punished. He knew that, and he knew he deserved it. Neal had purposefully made the decision to disobey his master, knowing full well the consequences. He most certainly deserved anything Peter had for him.

There was a creaking sound and Neal stiffened as Peter entered the bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind him. The man glanced around for a moment, a slightly confused look on his face, before his eyes fell on Neal.

"Neal, what are you doing in there?"

"Sitting, Master," Neal replied honestly. That was what he was doing, after all.

Peter sighed and sort of squatted down in front of the cage. "We need to have a talk, Neal."

"Yes, Master," Neal agreed, dropping his eyes.

"I'm very unhappy that you lied to me, Neal," Peter's voice was soft.

"It was wrong, Master," Neal replied. "I should be punished, sir.”

"Yeah," Peter said, not sounding too pleased about the idea. "But before we get into all that, I want to talk about what happened, the other day and tonight."

Neal swallowed hard. "Which do you want to talk about first, Master?"

Peter frowned. "Why don't you come out of that cage before we do either, okay, Neal?"

"The key is on the floor behind you," Neal said quietly, and Peter frowned again as he looked over his shoulder.

"You locked yourself in." It didn't sound like a question, so Neal didn't answer. Peter retrieved the key and opened the cage, then stood, gesturing for Neal to come out.

Neal obeyed, but he remained on the floor, falling into a submissive posture at Peter's feet.

"Here, come get on the bed with me," Peter ordered, and Neal pushed himself to his feet, grimacing a little as the plug moved inside him, then followed his master over to the bed.

Peter climbed on the mattress and settled back against the headboard, leaning against a pile of pillows. "Come here," he said, opening his arms and motioning for Neal to join him.

Neal dropped his head and carefully climbed onto the bed, crawling over to his master then hesitating, looking up into the man's brown eyes as he tried to figure where Peter wanted him to sit.

Peter spread his legs apart, and Neal took at as a sign that he wanted him between them. Neal did as instructed, swallowing down a lump in his throat as he felt Peter's groin pressing against his ass.

His master's big arms closed around him, and Peter pulled him tightly to his chest.

"Neal," he said in a whisper, "I need you to listen to me, okay, buddy?"

Neal nodded silently as he stared down at the arms around his bare chest, comforting and disturbing at the same time. Comforting because he really did like to be held, and disturbing because they were keeping him trapped.

"I am not here to hurt you, Neal. I don't want to hurt you. I'm here to take care of you, and that's what I want to do, okay?"

"Yes, Master," Neal replied, trying not to show how helpless and vulnerable he felt wrapped up like this. But the, why shouldn't he show it? He was helpless and vulnerable, and that was what he was supposed to be. This man owned him. The body Peter was holding belonged to him, not to Neal. Just because Neal was inside it didn't mean he got to decide how his master used it. It was like he was renting, only Neal couldn't choose to pack up and leave.

"So let's start with this. What happened the other day? You told Jack that a man 'used' you."

Peter's hand began to softly massage Neal's chest, and Neal sucked in a sharp breath as he felt himself start to harden. Wow, didn't he deserve the Fuckling of the Year award tonight? Talk about a bad time to become aroused. Hopefully Peter wouldn't notice, though it was hard to miss considering that Neal was next to naked.

"Yes, Master," he said in a small voice, taking a deep breath as the events began to replay in his mind. "At lunch, the day before yesterday. You… you sent me to the cafeteria. The man who took my hat…" he paused, frowning, "I can't even remember his name now…" His cheeks grew red with embarrassment, and Peter gave him a comforting squeeze.

"I know who you're talking about."

"Yeah… Anyway, the hat stealer… he followed me from the cafeteria to the place where slaves go to eat. When he got there, he told me to stand up and drop my pants. I obeyed, and he used me." Neal's voice cracked slightly, making his cheeks grow even redder. He should be able to talk about this without tearing up! It wasn't as if it was the first time he'd been used unexpectedly. Neal dropped his eyes, his voice growing soft. "He then put the used condom in my hat, smeared it around, and told me that if I didn't wear it every day, it would happen again."

Peter made a disgusted sound, and Neal bowed his head, humiliation washing over him.

"I'm sorry, Master," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I am sorry he used me, and I am sorry I lied about it. I look forward to being corrected for my behavior."

"You don't have to be sorry he used you, Neal," Peter said sharply. "That wasn't your fault."

"Maybe not," Neal said doubtfully, "but it still happened, and it shouldn't have. I let it happen. I accepted it, and then instead of admitting to it, I lied to you. Ian was right. Only whores do that. Letting it happen was being a bad slave, but not telling you was being a whore. It's your body, you have the right to know what happens to it."

"It's *your* body, Neal," Peter said, sounding stressed. "I may own you, but you live in that skin, not me. That makes it *your* body."

"No, Master," Neal said, shaking his head. "That's not how we're taught. It's your body, because you can do whatever you want with it. It's like a car. If you want to drive it off a cliff, that's your right. If I want to drive it off a cliff, that's a crime. It doesn't matter who's literally behind the wheel."

"Yeah, well, I don't think you're a whore, Neal," Peter said, his voice sounding funny.

"I am, though, Master," Neal said, blinking rapidly as tears rose up. "Honestly? I wish you would just fuck me. I don't understand why you don't. Master Jack fucks Ian even though he has a bad pedigree. What's wrong with me that you don't want me? Or that you do want me, but won't fuck me? There have to be things you'd like to do that you wouldn't do with your wife. There always are. How come you won't do those things to me? Is it because of all the men in prison? Are you disgusted by me? Because you can still fuck me if you're disgusted by me. I've had men fuck me like that before. I can take it."

Peter's arms tightened around Neal, and there was a long silence. When Peter finally spoke, his words had raspy edge to them. "Neal, there's nothing wrong with you. I am not going to have sex with you because I don't believe that it's right to do that to someone who can't consent. I don't think Jack is right for doing that to Ian, either."

Neal let out a hoarse laugh. "You think Ian would have been better off with a needle in his arm? He's a fuckling, Master. We're meant to be fucked. Do you know what they do to the fucklings they decide aren't good in bed during training?"

"No," Peter said slowly. "No, I don't know that."

"They drown them," Neal said, shivering a little. "While you watch. In a trough. They tie them up and hold their heads under the water until they die. Every year, you get one chance to prove you will make a good fuckling, and you had better apply everything you'd learned. The ones that fall short don't get to live. Sure, fucklings can do other things, like Ian does. They can clean house and cook dinner and watch kids. But we're trained for one thing, and if we're not doing that well, we're supposed to be dead. If I was fourteen, and you were my trainer, I'd be dead, because I haven't been trying hard enough to be a good fuckling."

Peter didn't speak, didn't move, didn't even acknowledge the words, so Neal just sat there tensely in his arms, wondering if he should have kept his mouth shut. Probably. But he'd needed to express his feelings to Peter, to try and make him understand why being held at a distance like this was so terrifying. He needed a place here, a place he knew he could fill. Whatever expectations Peter had about using his slave to help him solve cases, Neal had no idea if he would be able to live up to them. There was one thing he knew how to do, though, and life would be so much simpler if Peter would just take advantage of it.

After what seemed like eternity, his master finally said, "Neal, I'm going to be honest here. I do want you. You're beautiful and smart and creative. You're very sexy. Me not… using you… has nothing to do with you at all, and certainly nothing to do with the bastard who raped you. It has to do with me, and what I think is right."

"Where do you even pull this crap from?" Neal said, his own words making him wince, but he didn't stop, despite how incredibly inappropriate it was for him to speak to his master like this. "All of this self-righteous stuff about right and wrong and what's okay with a slave and what's not? It doesn't make any sense! It's like you're living in another world! What are you, some kind of secret liberationist? Because I don't want to be free. If I wanted to be free, I would have used my skills to turn myself into a free man, not to be a criminal slave. I could have done it! But I don't even know what I'd do as a free man. What do free men *live* for? No tasks assigned, no masters to please, no duties to perform… No rules on how to act or what to do? How do you ever know what to do? How do you know your place in the world?"

"You don't know," Peter said slowly, "but that's not a *bad* thing, Neal. You make your own choices, muddle your way through, and learn from your mistakes. You do what's best for yourself. That's what freedom is. It's good to be free, Neal. I can't even imagine how horrible it is to be a slave."

"It's not so horrible," Neal replied softly. "I don't know why you think it's so horrible. I mean, sure, there are places you can end up, like at the prison, that are horrible, but there are horrible places free men can end up, too. I don't understand why you're always so shocked about everything. No, I've never had a master invite me to eat at their table before, but so what? Do you think that bothers me? I may not be the best example of an obedient slave since I can't keep my goddamn mouth shut, but I do know my place, Master. I've told you before, and I'll tell you again… Not once, ever, have I considered myself to be your equal."

"I don't understand that," Peter said in a stressed voice. "How can you say something like that? You're so smart and talented. How can you say that you don't consider yourself my equal when you have so much going for you? It doesn't make sense to me."

Neal sighed, dropping his head. "Master," he said in a low voice, "I can't use money without a special note, I can't own property, I can't vote. I can't walk in the front door of most establishments by myself, and I can't physically protect myself against any free man. I can't cross state lines or drive a vehicle or rent an apartment or even sit on a park bench. I can't use most public restrooms. I can't drink alcohol. I can't get married or have a child and raise it. I can't even enter most churches because they consider fucklings to be 'unclean.' My intelligence and talents have nothing to do with any of those things. They apply to all people like me. I don't consider myself your equal, because I am *not* your equal."

"I don't believe that," Peter said, sounding pained, and Neal made a frustrated sound.

"Master, this isn't some philosophical question," he said, squeezing his eyes shut. "I am not your equal, and you really need to recognize that. It doesn't matter what you think should or should not be—there's no point in pretending. It will only lead to bad things, like what happened with the hat stealer. I was all alone, with no note stating what I was supposed to be doing, no proof for me to give that my master would care at all if someone used me, and my word is no good against a free man's."

"It would be good to me," Peter said in a tight voice, and Neal gave a short laugh.

"It doesn't matter. I would still have physically rebelled against a freeman on public property. I had no note from my master explaining why I was out of your sight, which is considered to be a sign that my master doesn't really care what happens to me and that all general public etiquette applies—including the rule that slaves may not physically resist freemen. This wasn't some con job, so if I had tried to fight back, it would have been me, Neal Caffrey, who rebelled, not some imaginary slave who was going to disappear in a few days or weeks anyway. I know that my attitude probably doesn't help any of this. I know I have a bad attitude. I'm really not a good slave, even when I am trying to be, and that confuses you. But I am still a slave, just not a very good slave, though I wish I was."

"Then what is a good slave?" Peter asked, sounding tired. "Some kind of puppet?"

Neal shrugged. "Ian is a good slave. That's why he hit me tonight. Because the way I was acting was inappropriate for any slave, anywhere, at any time, and to talk to you like that in another man's house was basically like spitting in my host's face. Even when he was doing bad things, like crying when his master used him, he was trying not to. He'd been psychologically scarred, and the reactions were beyond his control, so he was at least trying to be good. My bad attitude is not beyond my control. Acting superior and being rude is not an automatic response that I can't cut off no matter how hard I try. It's just my personality. Unfortunately, I've never been very good at suppressing my personality. It's lucky that I'm unusually pretty, or I probably would have been put down years ago."

"I'm sorry, Neal," Peter said in a quiet voice, "but I'm not comfortable with thinking about you like that. I don't see you as less."

"So it's better to leave me all alone, undefended than to treat me like what I am?" Neal asked, turning his upper body so he could look Peter in the eyes. "Would you leave a little kid all alone in a busy park, where anybody could grab him?"

"You're not a kid, Neal—"

"You're right," Neal interrupted, a rush of anger shooting through him. "I'm not, because a kid has more power than I do. Strangers will come to the rescue of a kid, or even a dog. I can tell that you don't like Master Jack all that much, but he really is at the extreme end. I heard the things he said about his childhood from the kitchen, and I can tell you the difference between him and the people who scorn him for being a liberal. Stories and rambling politics are nice, but the difference can be summed in a more much concise way. In fact, I can lay it out in a single sentence."

"Okay, I'll bite," Peter said slowly. "What's the difference?"

"Master Jack thinks slaves are human," Neal said simply. "Most people do not. He was raised by slaves, and knows it's not like being raised by wolves. And I will bet you that fifty years from now, when all the kids like Tyler have grown up and are running the world, it will be a different place, because like Master Jack they grew up amongst us, fostered by slaves and raised side by side with whipping boys and handmaidens. SlaveMart's reign will start to slip as more and more people choose to breed their own slaves rather than purchase them from a company who uses extreme training methods to terrify their product into submission, and it will become like old slavery again, where loyalty to a family dictates a slave's behavior. But here and now, at this point in time, the majority of people don't look at me and see a person, Master. They just don’t.”

"How can they not see a person?" Peter asked, sounding frustrated. "What do they see?"

Neal shrugged again. "They look at me and see a thing. I'm not even up there with dogs. Maybe more like a snake or an insect—alive, but not something you usually care about. Not something with the ability to feel more than basic fear, not something with any social or emotional or psychological needs. Not something you couldn't easily step on if it became an annoyance."

"But you don't think of yourself that way, do you?" Peter said, obviously disturbed.

"No, Master," Neal replied, "slaves don't see themselves that way. We know that we have feelings and needs, though I can't say whether or not they're the same kind of feelings and needs that free men have. They could much more basic, for all I know. I don't know how free men feel. But I know what things I feel, and what things other slaves feel. I don't consider myself a man, but I do consider myself a human being."

"How is that not the same thing?" Peter asked. "It sounds like two words for the same thing to me."

"You're a man, Master, and I do believe that's above what I am," Neal said softly, though the words made him ache inside. The truth made him ache inside. "I do believe that you are better than me. I do believe that I was born to serve men and women and that's my place in life. Unlike Master Jack, I don't even believe slaves should be able to be granted their freedom, because I believe that though we're all human beings, there is a difference between you and me that can't ever be bridged. Sometimes I like to pretend that I'm a man, which is what gets me in trouble a lot of times, but deep down I know that I'm not and that I never will be. That's why I didn't fight the hat stealer, and that's why I'm sitting here right now." The words 'even though I'm afraid' hung unspoken in the air.

They fell into silence, and Peter began to stroke up and down Neal's arm with his fingers, making little goosebumps on his skin. For a long time they just sat there, Neal tense against his master's chest, Peter's breath softly ruffling the hair on the top of his slave's hair. When Peter finally spoke, the subject had changed.

"Do you still have that thing in?" He sounded tired.

Neal bit his lip, ducking his head. "Yes, Master," he murmured. "I didn't know what you'd want me to do with it."

"I can't believe you thought I'd want you to wear it to begin with," Peter replied softly.

Neal winced a little. "I thought… Usually when you take a slave to another Master's house… I was afraid Master Jack might…" Man, it was tough to say 'I thought you were pimping me out' in a polite way.

"You thought you were some kind of gift," Peter said flatly. "I get it. That was never my intention, though, Neal."

"I know, Master," Neal whispered, cheeks going red. "I'm sorry for my assumption."

Peter let out a sigh. "I'm going to have to punish you, Neal. I said that I would, and I'm not going to back down on that. But I want to make it clear that I'm punishing you for lying to me, not for what happened to you at the office, okay? And I swear to you, I am going to make that right. I don't give a shit what the general public thinks, that asshole will not get away with this."

Neal nodded. "Yes, Master," he whispered, though he seriously doubted it would happen. His master really was naive. But it was nice, knowing that Peter really did care about protecting him, even if he wasn't fucking him.

"Alright," Peter said, letting out a sigh and pushing himself up into a sitting position. "I guess we'll get this party started."


	23. Find the Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter seeks advice from Haversham, Mozzie remembers the Find the Lady con, and Peter gets knocked off his high horse by a short, bald guy with glasses.

"Ooooom." Mozzie inhaled deeply through his nose, letting it out with a long, slow breath through the mouth. "Ooooom." In and oooout. "Ooooom." In and ooooout. "Ooooo—MOTHERFUCK!"

Mozzie jumped as Wednesday's phone began to ring, wincing as his lotus position became more of a broken pretzel. Wednesday was a really lousy place for meditation. Damn phones were always ringing. There were at least half a dozen here, one for all of his active aliases.

Screw it. It was meditation hour. Everyone worth knowing knew better than to call him during meditation hour. Mozzie inhaled deeply, letting it out again. In and oooout, in and oooout.

The machine clicked on, and Mozzie let out a sigh. This is what happened when he tried to get his Buddha on at the safe house that doubled as his personal telephone operating service.

"You've reached the office of Dr. Dante Haversham, Certified Slave Trainer. You claim them, I train them, the Man maims them. Leave a message at the beep."

"Hi, um, I was, um," there was a clearing of a throat, and whoever was gracing Mozzie's machine started again. "Hi, Dr. Haversham, this is, uh, Burke. Peter Burke. From the other day. You know, the fortune cookie guy?" As if Mozzie could forget. He'd had a Suit in his office, for God's sake! The things he did for Neal "I really need to talk to you, like, right now," the man continued in a loud whisper. Why was he whispering? "So if you're there and just not answering your phone which I think you probably are, it would be really nice if you picked up…"

Mozzie let out a groan, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. What had Neal done now? He should just ignore it. Neal wasn't his problem anymore. Hell, the slave had made it very clear he wasn't interested in teaming up with Mozzie again any time soon, or even speaking to him. That morning in front of the FBI office had made that crystal clear, never mind that he'd dragged Mozzie out of bed in the middle of the night to rush over to that June lady's house and save his ass only a day before.

In a way, though, Mozzie guessed he understood the sudden animosity. Neal was in a tough spot right now, a spot that he probably wouldn't have ever been in at all if he'd never met Mozzie. No, he'd probably be happily worshipping at the feet of some undeserving schmuck, which seemed about a thousand times worse in Mozzie's opinion than being a "criminal slave," but slaves were odd ducks about stuff like that. Neal still held the tiniest bit of a grudge on occasion, despite the fact that Mozzie had *not* been the one to instill Neal's rather uppity, dare devilish personality, despite what his friend liked to claim. Hell, that attitude was why Mozzie had wanted the kid to begin with. But Neal insisted on pretending that he'd been a perfect angel before Mozzie came along, and Mozzie might as well let him keep the delusion. The poor slave didn't have much else to hang onto, after all.

Burke was still rambling on in that weird whisper, something about serious problems, cupcakes, and butt plugs, so Mozzie pushed himself to his feet with a sigh, scowling as he made his way over to the bank of phones, yanking the one labelled 'Haversham' off the receiver.

"Hello, Suit," he said shortly, cutting off something about a slave and a tree fort. "Where did you get this number? I am *not* in the yellow pages." His voice was a little accusatory, as it well should be. "Did you use your Uncle Sam powers to track me down via Russian space satellite? Don't bother lying to me—I know that the USSR still exists."  
"What?" the Suit said, sounding confused. "No… It's on the damn website. You know, the Certified Slave Trainer's database."

Oh, right, that. Mozzie had almost forgotten that he'd actually done some serious background work on this particular alias, back when he hadn't had anything better to do. A PhD in Slave Psychology, bought from the University of the Pheonix for $90,000 siphoned out of the online monstrosity's own accounts, and then a month of internship at the Upstate New York Slave Training Facility to "finish up" the internship he'd supposedly started a year and eleven months ago in a tiny town called Futbuck, Idaho. The fact that the trainers at the facility had actually believed he'd come from a town called "Futbuck" went to show what sort of quality these particular facilities really were. Real top dogs, those trainers.

"What do you want?" he asked as cooly as possible, though honestly he was a little worried. It had been obvious that Burke had been less than pleased by Mozzie's "intervention," and he honestly hadn't expected to ever hear from the man again. Was something wrong with Neal?

"I'm…. Pun… Neal… don't…"

"What?" Mozzie said, frowning. "Suit, I can't hear a word you're saying, and I don't have time to get out all my spy equipment. Why the hell are you whispering,?"

"I'm in the closet," Burke replied, loud enough for Mozzie to actually hear him this time. "Neal's outside."

Burke was in the closet and Neal was outside? Oh, God help him. Mozzie wiped at his brow, a trickle of sweat running down his forehead. This could not be good. "He locked you in the closet?"

"What?" Burke said, sounding surprised. "No, no, of course not! I went in the closet so he couldn't hear me call you. Look, I need to punish him, but I don't know how. I tried using my phone to look stuff up, but it was all either awful, like beating the skin off his back with a wire clothes hanger, or really weird, like drawing polka dots all over his body. I need some help."

Mozzie grimaced a little. Drawing polka dots all over his body? Someone hadn't done their research well. Polka dotting *did* leave you with polka dots, but they were the sort of polka dots you got from a cauterizing pen burning the top layer of your flesh. Not permanent, but certainly painful, and definitely deserving of the name 'awful.'

"Okay," Mozzie said slowly, not entirely sure how to go about instructing a Suit on how to punish his best friend. "Well, what did he do?" If all Neal had done was steal a little scented shampoo or something, the big ponce, Mozzie wasn't going to tell Peter to whip the skin off his back. But who the hell knew what he had done? Neal could be a little bit of a loose canon. For all Mozzie knew, he might have taken off again or, better yet, decided to dump a gallon of Clorox over the Suit's head to 'clean his dirty mind' for talking about the size of Kate's tits. Thank God Mozzie had been wearing his toupee for that one, or he would probably still have burns.

There was a short silence, then when Burke finally spoke his voice was tense and nervous. "Somebody raped him, and when I confronted him about, he lied to me."

Mozzie took a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut as he let it out slowly again, trying to get ahold of his emotions. Oh, Neal. Stupid, stupid Neal.

"Look," Mozzie said in a carefully even tone, trying not to let his pain show, "I am not going to try to argue that it's not a serious offense, even though I want to, because I know what the common view on efflings and sex is. But don't you think the act was punishment enough, Suit?" He took another deep breath, feeling a little ill. "I mean, I really doubt that the sex was pleasant, and humiliating or painful intercourse is considered by the state to be an acceptable punishment for a slave allowing a freeman to use him without his master's permission." Wow, that had come out really calm. Much calmer than he felt inside. "In this case, I would recommend letting him know that the crime was also the punishment and just move on from there."

What Mozzie really wanted to recommend was that the FBI bastard whip his own ass for letting Neal out of his sight long enough for this to happen, but that wouldn't help anyone. It would just piss the man off, and Neal would be yearning for punishment anyway, save his poor, brainwashed soul.

"What?" Burke said, sounding surprisingly shocked.

Mozzie scowled. "Don't sound so amazed. You think fucklings like it like that? That's media bullshit. Propaganda. They don't like it anymore than you would. So, yes, I think the act was punishment enough in itself. I'm sure he's learned his lesson about wandering away from his master. Do you really need to add an extra dash of humiliation on top?"

Screw you, Haversham," Burke practically growled. "I'm not punishing him for *that,* you presumptive asshole." He sounded disgusted. "I'm punishing him because I specifically asked him about it, making it very clear that if he told me, I wouldn't punish him at all. Instead, he chose to lie to me, right to my face, even after I swore the only thing I would punish him for was *not* telling the truth. Trust me, I would back out if I could, but we're on precarious ground here already, and not fulfilling something I promised I would do would take us back to square one. So please, help me out here. You were his trainer. What should I do?"

Mozzie's eyebrows went up. So the Suit wasn't actually punishing Neal for the rape itself… That, at least, was good. Well, it was good in Mozzie's opinion. He wasn't sure Neal would agree. He'd never been able to convince the man that fucklings could be raped by freemen.

"Okay, well, then I guess you can whip him with a belt or a crop or a wooden spoon," Mozzie said, not really sure what the big deal was if Burke just wanted some harmless little punishment. "Spatulas work, too. Or if it's your thing, you can put him over your knee and spank him, I guess. Could be considered kind of kinky, but a slave wouldn't see it that way unless you specifically made it clear you were spanking them for sex. Slaves get spanked all the time."

"I don't want to hit him," Burke replied, sounding stressed. "He's been through enough as it is. Isn't there anything I can do that isn't so… degrading?"

Not so degrading, huh? Wow, that one would definitely make Neal chuckle. Burke thought a little slap to the ass was degrading? Someone obviously didn't get SlaveMart's weekly newsletter. This week's had been called 'Punishment: From Prideful to Purple,' and they hadn't even bothered covering things as light handed as spankings. Degrading was being stripped naked, hog tied, thrown into a bathtub, and pissed on, not having your thighs smacked with a spoon.

"Truthfully, mild beatings are pretty much the kindest punishments you can hand out, Suit," Mozzie said. "It doesn't cause long term damage, doesn't hurt all that much, doesn't involve taking away sustenance, and isn't mentally stressful. It's over quickly and the marks will go away quickly, too, unless you're using a really serious whip or hitting really hard."

"I don't want to hit him," Burke said again, his voice stern. "I am not comfortable with hitting him. I need something else."

Mozzie sighed, feeling a little annoyed. Didn't this guy get it? Short of telling Neal he'd been a very bad boy, a few slaps was as mild as you could go.

"I get that you don't want to hit him," Mozzie said, trying not to let his irritation seep into his voice. He didn't want to get Neal in more trouble, after all. Neal could do that well enough on his own. Man, he could not believe he was actually having this conversation with a Fed. Why had he contacted the man again? "But the only other choice is some form of white punishment, and while it doesn't leave marks, mentally it's much worse than black punishment in the end. Just use your belt to lightly whack his buttocks and thighs, then be done with it. Or put him over your knee and give him a firm spanking. That's what I would do."

Not that Mozzie had punished the slave very often, much to Neal's annoyance. Believing that he deserved to be punished was another thing Mozzie had been unable to break Neal of, and though he had never wanted to, there had been a couple of occasions when Neal had been so out of his head for being a 'very, very bad awful slave' that Mozzie had been forced to use a crop on him just to stop him from spending twenty-four seven in his cage, fretting about what he'd done. That SlaveMart was damn good at instilling the guilt in slaves when it came to not being 'properly punished.'

"White punishment?" Burke said, sounding confused. "What, there are races of punishment now? Is there a Latino punishment too?" His voice was sarcastic.

Mozzie snorted, rolling his eyes. "White punishment is psychological, Suit. Black is physical. You know, like white torture versus black torture. Sort of a 'jocks' versus 'mean girls' in high school thing. The jocks just stuff you in a locker or beat you up, but the mean girls spread rumors and tell lies and mess with your head until you can't see straight. Words hurt more than fists, white punishment is worse than black. Look, giving him a few slaps to the ass is pretty much the lightest thing I can come up with. I mean, you could put him on rations or restrict his movement by tying him up or putting him in a punishment cage, but personally I think both of those things are worse. Being hungry really sucks, and restricted movement can be both painful and exhausting."

"There isn't anything else you can think of?" the Suit asked, sounding genuinely upset at the idea of having to hurt Neal at all. It was kind of annoying. Why the hell did he have to be like this? If he wasn't careful, Mozzie was going to start *liking* the man, and that was not cool, not with a Suit.

Seriously, though, did the man really think a few slaps to the ass were going to make a big impact on someone like Neal? Like it was some big deal? Hell, when Mozzie had first met Neal, a light whipping would have been a cruise vacation for the kid. Back then, Neal had been whipped for fun. Hell, almost a decade later and Mozzie still couldn't get the blood out of his mind. Oh, the good old days.

o o o

"Find the lady, find the lady, follow her fast, she's a fast broad, but your eyes are sloooow," Rex said as he shuffled the cards around, as fast as he could. Which was perfectly fine, since Mozzie knew for sure that the lady was going to be in the middle. Get one right then get one wrong to trick the crowd into believing the game wasn't fixed, then make some moolah from the fool-ahs.

Mozzie bit his lip as he feigned concentration, squishing up his brow and trying to look as if he was really working at this. The cards finally came to a halt, and he rubbed his goatee, pretending to think.

"It's in the middle," he said finally, letting out a little whoop as Rex flipped over the card, revealing queen of hearts.

"Good peeps, pal," Rex said, wagging his eyebrows like Mozzie had actually followed the cards. "Wanna double up?"

"Oh yeah," Mozzie said, faking nervous enthusiasm as he slapped some more money down on the table.

"Lady's in the middle, watch her go, you against me, find the broad, don't think you can, you're way too slow, my hands are way too fast, the lady is on the move, where's she gone? Nobody knows!"

"She's on the right," Mozzie said confidently, knowing damn well that she wasn't. She was still in the middle, because it was Middle Monday, and every time Mozzie went up to bat, she was in the middle. Tomorrow would be Turnabout Tuesday, where she'd switch back and forth between right and left, then after that would be Western Wednesday, where she'd always be on the left. What could he say? He liked a routine. "Definitely on the right."

"She's back in the middle, sir," a voice said, and Mozzie raised his eyebrows as he looked up into the most shockingly blue eyes he'd ever seen. That wasn't what caught him off guard, though. No, it was the thick collar around his neck and the number 8 painted sloppily on his bare chest that made Mozzie look twice.

Dammit, Charlie was supposed to be off his turf by noon. The no good swindler, scaring off easy marks with his seedy, black market slave sales in the middle of the damn park.

"I'm pretty sure she's not," Mozzie said in a smug voice, hiding how pissed he was that this little Ken doll thought he could march up here and mess with his con.

"I'm pretty sure she is, sir," the boy replied back in a haughty voice.

"Hey, it's his money, slave," Rex said, reaching out and slapping the boy hard across the face, making him grunt. "Mind your place."

"Hey, no need to get rough," Mozzie said, scowling at Rex. His partner knew better than to slap slaves around in front of Mozzie. The kid had enough marks on his body, welts across his chest and heavy bruising around his ankles and wrists. Even the tops of his bare feet were black and blue. Mozzie did not approve of beating slaves, didn't approve of slavery at all, thank you very much. Uncle Sam couldn't play Mozzie for a fool; he knew that so called 'slaves' were simply people that the Man decided were a threat to the American aristocracy. Flag burners, communists, welfare moms, that kind of thing. Besides, considering where Mozzie came from, he had some personal feelings on the issue, too.

"You're right, of course, sir," the boy said as Rex continued to glare at him, dropping his head as though he was chastised, but Mozzie didn't miss the spark of anger in his eyes.

Hm. Interesting. Charlie's stock of little waifs were usually more broken than this. Hell, they were usually about one step from being ground into pieces, yet somehow this one had managed to slip away from the pack and was now here, surrounded by free men, speaking up like he was one of the guys.

Rex flipped over the card on the right, revealing a ten of diamonds, and Mozzie let out a loud groan, keeping to the program. Best to just ignore the slave. After that slap, he wouldn't be making waves again.

"I told you it was in the middle," the slave said, reaching out and flipping the card over, revealing the queen of hearts. There was a challenge in his bright, blue eyes.

Okay, apparently Mozzie had spoken a little to soon. It seemed that this kid liked to splash around.

"Well, why don't you put your money where your mouth is?" Mozzie said, crossing his arms over his chest as his mind raced. If he could play this kid right, he could end up with some leverage over Charlie. That would be nice.

The boy snorted, rolling his eyes, the cheeky brat. "I'm a slave, I can't *have* money."

Mozzie narrowed his eyes, noting that the boy had said he *couldn't* have money, not that he *didn't* have money. Charlie had found himself a real firecracker here.

"Yeah, but you got yourself," Mozzie said, which was true. This kid was damn hot, with his crazy blue eyes and his ripped chest and his perfect ass, not that Mozzie was really interested in selling him to one of the fat losers standing around the table or even in taking him out for a test ride himself. If Mozzie won a fuck out of the kid, though, that meant Charlie would owe him the usual rental fee if Mozzie decided to "return" him instead and, knowing the cheap bastard, he'd find a new place to set up shop for awhile simply to avoid having to hand any cash over. Of course, the boy would probably get a beating for it, but from the look of his body right now, that was the norm anyway, poor kid.

"You're up for sale, right?" Mozzie said casually. "Charlie's stock? I know 'im. You win, you can have the cash, go sneak yourself a hotdog before he figures out you're gone. You lose, I take it out in trade, to the highest bidder." Or straight out of Charlie's pocket.

The boy pursed his lips, blue eyes fluttering nervously, then he gave a sharp nod. "Fine. Hand job for fifty."

Mozzie let out a snort, as if the offer was ridiculous. He wouldn't be able to run Charlie off for a single day over fifty bucks. He needed something more substantial. "Why the lowballing? This is high stakes, kid. At least bring that pretty mouth to the table." Yeah, this kid's mouth was probably worth a good two hun. That would get Charlie gone for a week or three.

The slave's eyes narrowed, and that challenging look was back. Definitely not the norm for a slave. This one was quite the special piece of work. Mozzie wasn't even sure that Charlie could handle him.

"How about the whole shebang for five hundred?" the kid replied in a low voice, and the little crowd around them began to whistle.

Rex smirked, reaching out and grabbing the boy's crotch. The tight Spandex shorts might as well have been nothing for all they covered, and the kid stiffened as the man began to stroke his balls, making his cock begin to harden. Those bright blue eyes fell to the floor as his hands slipped behind his back into a submissive posture, and Mozzie saw him taking slow, calming breaths as Rex continued to fondle his genitals. Fucking bastard. Why the hell was he working with this schmuck, again?

"Okay, I think we've seen enough of the goods," Mozzie said, batting the man's hand away. Asshole.

"Anybody here willing to pay us five hun for a chance at this one?" Rex called out, making Mozzie grit his teeth. "Sweetie, flex that ass for daddy and show the boys what you've got."

The kid's eyes flashed again, but a moment later he obeyed, bending at the knees and sticking out his butt, squeezing his ass cheeks.

"I'd take him," a pervert at the back said, raising up a hand and flashing a toothy grin. "He's a beauty. Would love to ram that."

"Then it's on," Rex said, smirking as he began to flip cards. Yeah, he'd better smirk now, because after this, Mozzie was gonna rip him to pieces for being such a pervy bastard. He wouldn't be smirking then.

"Aw, don't stand up, sweetie," Rex said when the slave started to straighten up, "you can keep that ass out while you watch. A fuckling like you don't need your brain to work your ass."

Mozzie forced himself to remain silent, eyes narrowing at his partner. No, his *former* partner. It was definitely time to start hiring.

"Lady's moving fast, faster than you'll ever be, no slave could ever see, where that lady longs to be," Rex intoned as he shuffled, and Mozzie watched carefully, quirking his lips ever so slightly as he saw the man exchange the queen for another card. Rex might be a pervy schmuck, but he was damn good when it came to sleight of hand. If Mozzie hadn't been on high alert, he might not have even seen it.

"Going, going, she's gone, gone, gone, but where's she gone? Find the lady, if you can…" A dozen shuffles later, and Rex finally came to a halt, grinning wickedly at Mozzie.

Mozzie smirked back, despite his current annoyance at the man. The boy was theirs. Now all he had to do was keep Rex's hands off of him long enough to get the kid back to Charlie and run his lousy ass off.

The slave boy frowned in concentration, which looked rather funny considering that his ass was still stuck out for the crowd's viewing pleasure. "She's on the left," the kid said after a moment, and Rex let out a derisive laugh.

No, she ain't, boy." He smirked as he reached out and ran a hand through the slave's hair. "Too bad for you," he crooned, and suddenly Mozzie was full on pissed at him again. Seriously, Rex *knew* how Mozzie felt about this shit!

"Oh, I think she is," the boy said in an innocent voice as he reached out and flipped over the card… revealing the queen of hearts.

Moz's mouth dropped open in disbelief. What the hell?

"I guess the lady likes me," he said with a smirk as he straightened up and quickly gathered up the money, stuffing it into the front of his little shorts. "Better luck with your broad next time," he said, already backing away, then he turned and dashed off, leaving Mozzie shaking his head in disbelief.

What the hell had just happened here?

Mozzie reached out, flipping over the queen, then made a sound of disbelief as he caught sight of the bright red back. It contrasted wonderfully against their very *blue* deck. The slave had made a switch, and Mozzie hadn't even had a clue!

"Hey, kid," Mozzie said to the boy who hung around their table. "Go get Charlie for me." He held out a ten dollar bill, and the kid frowned deeply.

"Charlie ain't here no more, mister. He left 'bout four hours ago. I saw him pack up and drive off."

Mozzie's eyes widened, mouth dropping open yet again. No way would Charlie have left with one of his stock missing. Mozzie had been scammed, truly scammed. Some kid had dressed up like a slave, knowing he could use his ass for the betting cash he didn't have, and had scammed him at his own damn game! And damn, had he done a good job! Had all those marks really been makeup? They must have been. Unbelievable. Man, Mozzie should have known something was up. No slave had an attitude like that.

"Follow that guy," Mozzie said, pointing to the street where the so called "slave" was disappearing around the corner.

"For twenty," the kid said, looking prissy, and Mozzie made a sound of annoyance, pulling out another ten and shoving it into his hands.

"Fine, fine! Just follow him, dammit! Don't lose him." The kid took off and Mozzie reached out, quickly counting their pot and separating it into halves, stuffing his own in his pocket as he shot Rex one last glare. He'd said he'd needed a new partner, and the universe had provided. Now all he had to do was convince the kid to join the club.

"Hey, where you goin'?" Rex asked, looking confused as Mozzie started off, heading for the tree where he and his little boy in training always met up after their deals.

Mozzie paused, turning around and giving the man a disdainful look. "Sorry, Rex, but I think I need an upgrade. What can I say? You're getting a little slow."

o o o

Mozzie sucked in a deep breath as he stared at the door in front of him. This was it, the living space of the kid who had scammed him, Mozzie, the Moz Man, king of the con. Unbelievable. His cheeks were still red, but he wasn't going to let the embarrassment of being played keep him from jumping on this amazing opportunity. It was time to find out who this kid was and make a deal with him.

Three sharp knocks on the door, and Mozzie stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest as he waited. He frowned slightly as a shuffling sound came from behind the door, followed by a soft groan. Slowly it opened, stopping after a few inches as it caught on the chain. Staring out at him was the kid, one big blue eye peeking through the crack.

"Hey," Mozzie said, smiling at the boy. "I'm the guy from the park—"

The door slammed shut, and Mozzie winced. Okay, maybe that hadn't been the best way to go about this. He probably should have made it clear that he was here in peace, considering the kid had basically stolen five hundred bucks from him.

"Relax kid, I'm not here to shake you down," he called out, trying to sound like a Nice Guy.

"Good," came a cold voice from behind the door. "Because I don't have the money anymore."

"Look, I just want to talk to you," Mozzie said earnestly. "I've been running the Find the Lady con for years now, and even I didn't catch that swap. It was amazing.”

There was a silence, then the boy replied in a strained voice, "Is your touchy feely partner with you?"

"Nah," Mozzie said, shaking his head as if the kid could see him. "I ditched him. Decided I needed an upgrade. He was an ass, anyway. I'm sorry he touched you like that."

There was another pause, then Mozzie heard a latch being slowly pulled back. A moment later the door opened, and he let out a gasp at what he saw.

The kid's entire face was black and blue, lips swollen, and if Mozzie had thought his chest was bad before, it was a wreck now. What was really disturbing, though, was just how red his thighs were, a thin, crusty layer of drying blood almost completely covering them, dripping down his legs.

"Don't have to apologize," the boy said tiredly, grimacing as he had to take a step to shut the door behind Mozzie as he entered. "He's got a right to touch me if he wants." He finally got the door closed and turned to face Mozzie. "My master will be back in a few hours, and if I'm not clean by then, and the floor's not clean by then, too, he'll be really pissed. His friends are coming over, and there's blood in the living room. So I really need to start cleaning." He headed for the sink in a small kitchenette area, his steps really more of a shuffle.

"You're a slave," Mozzie said in disbelief as he watched the poor boy pick up an already blood soaked towel and begin wiping at the blood on his legs. It wasn't doing much good. The back of the boy's shorts were ripped, and Mozzie could see that his butt cheeks were smeared with blood and his crack was dripping it, making it obvious where it had all come from. Whoever had fucked him had literally torn him apart. "You're an actual slave."

"Uh, yeah," the kid said, looking at him like he was nuts. "That's why I wear a collar." He paused, cocking his head to the side, letting out a short laugh. "You thought I was faking? Come on, no free man can stick his ass out like that. It's a fuckling thing."

"But you're not one of Charlie's," Mozzie said, deciding to ignore the fuckling comment. It was a statement, not an accusation, but the boy seemed to take it as one.

"Never said I was one of Charlie's," the slave replied sharply, scowling. "Having a number painted on your chest doesn't automatically make you Charlie's. You didn't ask me if I was Charlie's."

"You came to the park like that to scam me, though," Mozzie said, and the boy snorted softly as he wiped rather futilely at the blood on his ass.

"You were scamming people first. I just gave you a taste of your own medicine." He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry, but Master was out of booze, and he's not pretty when he's out of booze." The boy paused, frowning as he looked down at himself. "Obviously, he's not pretty when he's on the booze, either. I'm used to the beatings by now, but he went all out today. He's never fucked me with a beer bottle before. I don't think anybody's ever fucked me with a beer bottle before. It hurts."

You think? Mozzie grimaced, but the kid carried on like this was normal conversation.

"It's sort of like being fucked by a hairbrush handle. But this was a weirder shape, and the stupid metal cap was still on, and he was moving it all around and pulling it out and shoving it back in and moving it more. I think it ripped me up pretty bad…"

"Yeah," Mozzie said, feeling a little sick to his stomach as he stared at the boy, unable to comprehend how the kid could be so nonchalant about it. "That's a lot of blood."

The boy made a sound of agreement, his face twisting up into a pained expression. "I think I'm gonna have to use the shower to wash." He sounded frightened. "Master won't like that."

Mozzie frowned, moving over to the kitchen table and pulling out a chair. "Here, sit down. I'll help clean you, okay? You must be light headed, all that blood loss. Sit down."

The kid just stared at him for a long moment, looking a little suspicious, then he let out a sigh and moved over to the table, sitting down with a grimace. "Thank you, sir," he said softly, dropping his eyes.

Mozzie went over to the sink, holding the towel under the faucet until the stream had gone from deep red to a light pink, then he pulled it out, squeezing out the excess water. "Got any big bowls?"

"Uh… third cabinet on the right, sir," the boy said, wiping hastily at his face as a tear ran down it, looking embarrassed. "Sorry," he muttered. "Got something in my eye."

Something in his eye. Right. More like he'd had something horrible up his ass and was in terrible fucking pain. Was he really embarrassed to be crying? Mozzie would be a wreck. It was times like these that he was really grateful to his parents, as sad as he was that he had never gotten to know them.

"So," Mozzie said as he moved back to the table, setting down the bowl he'd just filled with warm water and kneeling down in front of the slave boy. "Do you scam people often?" A little friendly conversation to distract from what he was about to do.

The boy gave a chuckle that turned into a soft whimper as Mozzie began to wipe the dried blood off his thighs as carefully as he could manage. The Spandex shorts the boy was wearing were soaked with blood. To clean him up, they really needed to come off, but Mozzie wasn't sure he wanted to know what the kid's genitals looked like. Considering that pretty much every inch of him was black and blue, Mozzie seriously doubted that the kid's master had avoided his genitals during the beating simply out of the goodness of his heart.

"Actually, yes, sir," the kid replied, blinking swollen eyes. "When I look good enough for it. Master likes pain, but he usually doesn't go at me this hard. I forge trackers and papers then Master sells the fake me, and I run away, then we move. Except he's been doing a lot more drinking lately, and we were running out of money but he was in no shape to pull a con. So when I saw you in the park the other day… I thought it would be a good way to earn some quick cash. Didn't realize he'd celebrate a new pantry full of whiskey by hanging me from the ceiling, beating the shit out of me, then fucking me with his beer."

Mozzie raised an eyebrow. There was an edge of bitterness to the boy's voice that you didn't usually hear from slaves, even ones who were treated this badly. Which was, unfortunately, a good number of them.

"So, what's your name, kid?" Mozzie asked, and the boy gave him a smile. Well, it was probably a smile. Hard to tell beneath all the bruising.

"Neal," he replied. "Neal Caffrey, sir."

"I'm Mozzie," he said, giving Neal a comforting smile as he slid the wet rag down his leg, wiping up the trail that had dripped from his thigh to his calf.

"That's a funny name, sir," Neal replied, then immediately flinched, a horrified look coming over his face, like he couldn't believe he'd just said that. "In a good way," he said, sounding panicked. "I meant that in a good way, sir. Good funny. Like… like… cool. Yeah, I meant it's a cool name, sir. A very cool name."

Mozzie swallowed down the lump in his throat. Man, this was why he hated spending time around slaves. They were all so damn scared of you all the time. It was terrible.

The bowl was already filled with blood, so Mozzie stood, moving back over to the sink to refill it. As he set it down, something on the opposite counter caught his eye. He left the bowl under the running tap, dried his hands, then moved over to it, making a sound of surprise as he picked a set of slave documents off the counter. "Wow," he said as he inspected one of the Certificate of Ownerships. "These forgeries are flawless."

"What makes you think they're forgeries?" Neal countered in an overly casual voice, looking nervous.

Mozzie let out a laugh. "Well, considering that the descriptions on all of these match you perfectly, but there's a different name on every one… I took a wild leap. They're really awesome, though. How did you get the tri-color seal right?"

The kid shrugged. "I just eyeballed it. I'm pretty good with paint. And okay at technology. I can rewrite registration chips."

"Wow," Mozzie said, impressed. "You are quite the talent. We could do big things together, you and me."

Neal looked up sharply, gazing at Mozzie with those hauntingly blue eyes, then dropped his gaze suddenly. "Thank you, sir," he said softly, then paused, glancing back up with a nervous look on his face. "We… we can go in the shower, if you want. I've stopped bleeding, I just need to wash it off. But please, can you do it now, before my master gets home?" His voice was strained. "I didn't tell him the whole story about where the money came from. He'll be mad that I took a card from his deck."

Mozzie frowned, the words leaving him confused. "You want me to help you wash off in the shower?"

"Unless you want me bloody. I figured from the way you looked at me when you came in that the blood bothered you. But you can do it here, if you want. Just please, do it before my master gets back."

"Do it? Do what?" Mozzie said, not even sure what they were talking about anymore.

"Take back your money," Neal replied, looking at him strangely. "That's why you're here, isn't it?" He started to bite his lip, then winced as his teeth touched the tender, swollen flesh. "I'm surprised your friend didn't want to come." He sounded bitter. "I was kind of expecting him. I saw that kid that was with you following me and figured grabby hands would be on my doorstep sometime today. I was surprised to see you, though."

Mozzie's eyes went wide, the meaning of the kid's words hitting him like a ton of bricks. The boy thought he was here to rape him in exchange for the money he'd taken. Had apparently thought that when he'd let Mozzie in the damn door. Why the hell would you let someone in the door that you thought was going to *rape* you?

Mozzie felt like he was going to puke. "That's not what I'm here for, kid," he said gruffly, cheeks bright red. "I thought that sort of fell into the 'not gonna shake you down’ category. I came to meet you. To make you an offer."

Neal's brow furrowed up. "An offer? I'm a slave. You'll have to talk to my master."

Mozzie smiled wickedly. "Oh yeah? Well, what if he wasn't your master anymore?"

o o o

"There's nothing else you can think of?" Burke asked, sounding kind of pitiful, and Mozzie sighed, trying to figure out how to go about this. He needed to get through the Suit's head that being what *he* considered 'Mr. Nice Guy' wasn't going to help Neal at all. In fact, it would probably end up hurting him.

"Suit, I promise you, I know it sounds bad, but a little beating is not going to break Neal into pieces." Mozzie grimaced, the memory of how the kid had looked when he'd first opened that door all those years ago filling his mind. "He's had owners who ripped him to shreds for the *fun* of it. When I met him, he'd just been raped twenty ways by a freaking beer bottle. What it *will* do is give him some peace. If I know him, right now he is feeling like total shit. His head is full of 'I'm such a bad slave' woes, and his only focus is on how terrible, horrible, bad, awful he is. Hitting him will give him some emotional release, make him feel better mentally. I don't like it, either, but even I had to do it once or twice, and we never had a real master and slave relationship. We were more like friends."

Not that Mozzie would have minded being more than friends, but during their time together Neal had eyes only for Kate, and now his sights had obviously been relocked on this Peter Burke guy. Like he'd told the Suit, Neal was a dangerous person to love. Dangerous because the man loved himself so little, that his "love" of others tended to border on obsession, making it difficult to tell if his love was true, honest, good love or the kind of love that victims felt for their abusers. Mozzie supposed that, in the end, he'd been lucky. At least he knew Neal's love for him as a friend was one hundred percent real, not something instilled in him by SlaveMart. Kate had never been able to say the same, and Mozzie wasn't sure that the Suit would ever be able to, either, no matter how bad he wanted it.

"How did you get there?" Burke asked. "To the friendship thing? Because that's all I want. That's what I'm trying to do!"

Mozzie frowned, trying to figure out how to explain his relationship with Neal without spilling every secret he had to an agent of the federal government. Not an easy task, but worth it if it would help make his best friend's life a little easier.

"We didn't have to 'get there,' Suit," he said slowly, "because I was never a power figure to him. Believe it or not, Dante Haversham is not entirely who he seems to be. The first time we met, I was trying to run a con on him and he was trying to run a con on me. Then when I came into possession of his contract, it was through less than legal means. I 'trained' him, because he wouldn't let me call it 'teaching,' but I was less a master, more a mentor. I didn't legally own him, so I had no real power to keep him from walking away. Especially since I change names like most people change underwear. Note that, by tomorrow, Dr. Haversham will no longer exist," he added for good measure. "You not only legally own him, you also work for the damn government who put him on the prison menu next to tater tots and pudding cups. Neal knew from the beginning that he and I had a mutually beneficial relationship."

"So do we," the Suit protested. "He gets out of prison, I get help on cases. That's mutually beneficial."

Mozzie snorted. "In your mind. In his mind, he gets out of prison, you get a slave. He's a conman, and that's all I wanted from him. Period. He still had other masters, in fact, he *always* had another master, even if it was a con job. Until Kate became his owner, he didn't do scams as a free man at all, because then who would be his master? Not me, I was his 'trainer,' but I was in no way his master, because I put so much effort into taking care of him. In Neal's mind, caretakers and mentors don't fit his definition of the word 'master.' You, on the other hand… You are most definitely his master, by law and just because he's built you up in his mind. The fact that you're acting so… caring is freaking him out, making him wonder if you will decide not to keep him because you're doing stuff for him, and he isn't doing enough for *you.* He finds the idea of you wanting a mutually beneficial relationship scary, because he believes masters only protect slaves who give them everything, and if you're giving something back, it's not an equal transaction."

"Last time I checked, mutually beneficial *meant* an equal transaction," Burke replied.

"Not to a slave," Mozzie said, shrugging to himself. "Between two free men, yes. But an equal exchange between a slave and a master means that the slave gives the master everything, and in return the master gives the absolute minimum, and that absolute minimum is all the slave deserves, because slaves are not equal to masters."

"So, what, you can't be master and slave and still have a mutually beneficial relationship?" Burke asked, sounding annoyed, like it was somehow Mozzie's fault that slaves had a twisted, brainwashed view of reality.

"No," Mozzie said flatly, "you can't. Not according to his *real* slave trainers, the ones who had him as a kid."

"He can't believe that," the Suit protested, sounding upset. "That makes no sense at all. He doesn't feel safe because I *don't* treat him like shit?"

Okay, obviously Mozzie needed to word this a little better, because the Suit really wasn't getting it.

"I think I need to explain something to you, Suit," Mozzie said, mind racing as he tried to figure out the best way to describe the endlessly confusing mindset of a slave. "Neal doesn't expect an equal relationship with you, ever. Anything he may have said or done to make you think otherwise is a lie. He expects to be used for your own purposes, whatever those purposes are, and to have to fully submit to it. In exchange, he gets a master, AKA, someone who will protect him from the outside world. That master may hurt him, but he was taught that is the master's right. In return, he gets to stay alive and he gets protected from being assaulted by random people. You being all humanitarian freaks him out because he feels like it means he's not holding up his end of the bargain. You need to stop being so damn nice."

"Excuse me?" Burke said, sounding pissed now. "You want me to stop being *nice?* From the way you talked about him, I thought you cared about him."

"I do," Mozzie snapped, pissed off himself now. "A hell of a lot more than you do. I love that man, too, you know. But if you really care like you say, it's time to make a choice. Whose feelings are you going to make the first priority? Yours or Neal's?"

"I think it's pretty obvious I'm putting Neal first," Burke replied sharply.

Mozzie snorted. "Look, I am quite the liberationist, but I am wise enough to know that, by Neal's age, slaves can't be 'fixed.' Neal is not going to wake up one morning and decide to be your BFF. I want slavery *dead*, but I know that the way to do it is by trying to save the young ones and working to change the culture, not by forcing the old ones to do things that freak them out and cause them pain. You may think you're being a hero, and I respect the fact that you want to treat Neal so well. But in reality, you're hurting him. I was there, the other night, when he ran away. I saw how stressed and exhausted and depressed he was, Suit."

"Okay," Burke snapped, "then tell me what to do, Mr. Know It All. Tell me how to help him."

"Punish him," Mozzie said flatly, "but do it kindly. Use him around the house and at work, but do it humanely. Fuck him like you obviously want to, but do it gently and respectfully. I know this isn't what you want to hear, but it is the only way you'll get through to him, Suit. I was never his master, but you are. Kate went through the same thing, though to be honest, she didn't care about him nearly as much as you seem to. And the fact that I'm saying that means a lot, because if you hadn't noticed, I don't *like* people like you, Agent Burke."

"Well, I don't exactly love you, either," Burke snapped. "What you're saying makes no sense at all! Punish him, use him… do *that* to him? You said this was to help him, but that sounds a lot more like me helping myself."

"Look, if you do those things, and do them in a way that shows him you care about and respect him, then he'll start to trust you," Mozzie said, suddenly feeling exhausted. Talk about a shitty conversation to be forced to have. "If you refuse to do those things, he's never going to trust you because, at the back of his mind, you're this skulking master figure who is just waiting for the right time to take what's yours, probably in a cruel and violent way."

"But I'm not that kind of person," Burke protested.

"If you won't punish him or use him or fuck him, then how is he supposed to know you aren't that kind of person?" Mozzie asked impatiently. "Is he supposed to take your word for it? You think slaves don't get lied to all the time? Prove it or lose it, Suit. That's how it's going to have to go, because if you don't prove it, your little partnership is going to be a mess, because he will never trust you."

"I am not willing to do that," Burke said in a cool voice, and Mozzie made a frustrated sound.

"Yeah, then you're a selfish prick, that's what you are," he retorted. "Don't you understand yet? One of the two of you is going to have to live life in a manner that you find frightening and disturbing. Right now, you're making Neal live that life so that you can keep your nose clean and feel all good and self-righteous, up on your high horse. Are you really willing to let him suffer for some stupid morality bullshit you pulled out of your ass?"

"That's not what I'm doing!" Burke protested angrily. "I am being *respectful* of him."

"No," Mozzie snapped, "you are being respectful of your own damn self. You're being respectful of what you believe is right and wrong, and it *hurts* him. I know you think that treating him like a slave is the painful thing, but he's used to that, Suit. It's his *life.*"

Mozzie took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut. "The truth it, I hate slavery. I hate it all! I grew up in an orphanage because my parents left me on the doorstep so that I could grow up a free man instead of a slave like them. I fucking *despise* slavery! It took away my parents! But did I tell Neal that he couldn't call me 'trainer,' just because it made me feel sick to my stomach? No. Did I refuse to punish him those few times he absolutely begged me to, just because it made me want to cry? No. Did I stop him from going out and selling himself to men simply so he'd have call someone to call 'Master'? No, I didn't, and it broke my heart not to, but I knew that he would go crazy if he didn't have a master. Literally, crazy. As in, the one time I tried to stop it, when we first became friends, he curled up butt naked in the corner of the bathroom, buried his face in his knees, and refused to come out for days. For *days.* Wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep, and I had to force water down his throat."

"Oh my God," Burke said, sounding shocked. Good. Mozzie could appreciate that the Suit cared for Neal, but it was time for him to come to terms with what that meant. Otherwise, his feelings were meaningless, because Neal would never understand them.

"I devoted every waking minute to reprogramming him, trying to get it through his thick skull that he is a person, just like everybody else, but I didn't try to force that belief on him," Mozzie said. "I spent almost ten years carefully inching him along, pulling him ever so slowly out of that slave mindset that had been pounded into him. But whenever I saw it was hurting him, I stopped. It hurt *me* to do so, because I didn't want to hear my best friend tell me he deserved to be raped or to show me the whip marks on his back. It would have been much easier to try and cram my beliefs into him, to the point where he just stopped telling me all that shit. But you can't force people to accept things they aren't ready to. All that shoving my feelings on him would have done was make him afraid to talk to me about that stuff. It wouldn't change what he *believed.*"

"But if you don't push, how do you change things?" Burke said in a soft voice.

"Gently," Mozzie said. "Slowly. I got Neal pretty far, as far as he was when you met him, back before prison sent him spiraling back, and I did it *without* leaving any scars. On him, anyway. It scarred me pretty bad, because it hurt me to know he believed he was worth no more than what some asshole would pay at auction for him. But I didn't say 'fuck your feelings,' and force him to live by my principles. If he wasn't comfortable eating at the table with me one day, he didn't have to eat at the table just to make me feel good. His whole life people have been forcing what *they* want on him, and I refused to be one of those people, even when what he wanted was something I believed was wrong. I mean, I made my feelings on the subjects clear, but I didn't force it on him, because if I had, I would have been as bad as any other man who's made him do things only for their gratification."

"I… I hadn't really thought about it like that," Burke said, sounding a little disturbed. Good. Disturbed meant Mozzie was getting through to him, because the truth really *was* pretty disturbing.

"It's time to make up your mind, Suit. Do you want to be another one of those men, forcing what you want on Neal no matter how bad it hurts him? Or are you willing to take a few lashes to the heart in order to see him happy and help move him in a better direction in his *own* time? It's up to you. As for the punishment thing, just give him the damn whipping. It's a big deal to you, but not to him. What's a big deal to him is you freaking out every single time he acts like a slave. I know, because it was the same with me at first. He's probably sitting in that room right now, staring at the closet, coming up with scenarios we couldn't imagine in our worst nightmares as to what's about to happen. Scared and alone as he wonders what he's done wrong that you went from about to punish him to hiding in a damn closet. You could have finished this all up a half an hour ago. A few lashes to the butt, and it would have been done. Neal would have felt he'd paid his dues, would have felt in control again. Instead, he's probably scared shitless. So either go in there now and get it done or find him a new home, Suit, because Neal deserves better than a life where he has to go down with the ship to save your precious morals."

Mozzie sort of spat the last words, but he couldn't help it. He probably ought to have been a little more understanding, considering he'd been through a very similar situation with Neal, albeit a much lighter version since he hadn't been Neal's idea of a "master," but it still pissed him off, imagining what a mess Neal must be all because this fucking Fed was a big baby on a high horse.

There was a long silence, and for a moment Mozzie wondered if the Suit had hung up somewhere during his admittedly long diatribe, but then the man spoke.

"Thank you, Dr. Haversham… Or whatever your name is," Burke said in a voice Mozzie couldn't really decipher. "I appreciate your… input… on the situation. I realize I'm not your favorite person, but I do care about Neal, so I really would appreciate it if I could have another way to contact you if 'Dr. Haversham' really does disappear tomorrow."

Mozzie frowned for a moment, then let out a little sigh. "I'll keep this number. You can call here if you need anything. But if I hear about any Russian satellites pointing my way, the deal's off."

"Thank you," the Suit, voice still a little weird. "It's been enlightening. Have a good night."

The phone went dead in his hands and Mozzie ran a hand across his forehead, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. It was all in the Suit's hands now.


	24. Slaves of Our Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Neal rises to the occasion, Peter finds out how hot spankings can be, and the show gets a new director.

Neal had been locked in a lot of places. Everything from cages to coffins, but the closet was a classic favorite, good for slaves and badly misbehaving children. You know, if you didn't mind having Child Protective Services up your ass.

Oddly enough, out of the dozens—if not hundreds—of times Neal had been involved in some sort of closet case, this was the weirdest. Mainly because it wasn't him in the damn closet.

Peter had disappeared into its depths at least fifteen or twenty minutes ago, maybe more, and Neal was pretty sure that if the man stayed in there any longer, he was going to puke. Or maybe just pass out from the exhaustion of being THIS on the edge.

"Let's get this party started," his master had said, not in the most ecstatic of voices, and Neal had obediently lain down on his stomach like a good slave, ready to take whatever Peter had to dish out. He'd shut his eyes, taking deep, calming breaths as he waited for whatever punishment the man saw fit. Tense—and more than a little nervous—he'd waited. And waited. And waited. Until, finally, he heard a little click, and turned his head to discover his master was gone.

His first thought was that the man had left him there, but the door to the hallway was beside the bed, and Neal hadn't heard it open. After a few moments of confusion, Neal realized that the closet door, which had been open before, was now shut, and that he could hear soft murmuring within.

What the hell? Slave training was pretty broad schooling, but it hadn't covered what to do when your master disappeared into a closet in the middle of a punishment.

It was times like this that Neal wasn't sure if having Peter as his master was a blessing or a curse. Okay, so far the man had shown himself to be amazingly generous, but he was also as unpredictable as hell. The closest Neal had ever come across was Mozzie, but even Mozzie hadn't been this bad. The guy was as liberal as hell, thinking slaves should be up there with people, and maybe a little crazy, too, but Moz's crazy was predictable. He hated slavery, he trusted no one, and he was as paranoid as hell. That pretty much summed up Mozzie, one hundred percent. Peter wasn't so clear cut.

Not that it was really a fair comparison, considering that while Mozzie had taught Neal nearly everything he knew about being a con man, he’d taught him nothing about being a slave, to the extent that Neal hadn't even really considered himself to be the man's belonging. Other men had filled that position in his life, men who could be counted on to put him in his place when he was bad. 

Even Mistress Kate had a firm hand, though she mostly punished him for stupid things, like not being 'empathetic enough' when she was on her period or forgetting that she hated salmon. Neal's bigger infractions had gone unpunished, but that made sense considering that those infractions made up most of their income.

Peter, though, was simply all over the place. Right off the bat, Neal had felt that Peter was his master, whether he liked it or not, something he'd never had with Mozzie and something that had developed slowly with the often submissive Mistress Kate. It reminded him of how he'd felt with Master Vincent—you know, before the asshole had decided to fuck around with Neal’s life simply for the hell of it—only about a thousand times more confusing.

Neal buried his face in the pillow, fighting back the panic trying to rise up within. Why the hell couldn't his master just get it over with? Why did he have to torture him like this?

Sweat was trickling down Neal's neck despite the fact that the room was chilly, and his muscles were so tight he felt like they were about to snap. Not that he had a right to bitch about anything Peter chose to do. He deserved this, for lying to Master. Hell, he deserved much more than this—being left to stew over his shortcomings wasn't exactly a singletail to the back—but somehow it just seemed worse. 

It made him want to scream, to cry, to act out in some way to prove that he didn’t disappear when his master wasn't around. Because that was what it felt like to be abandoned like this, as if Peter believed that when he was gone, Neal ceased to exist.

Maybe this, all of this, was some kind of training Neal had never heard of. Generosity blemished by misunderstanding, a power play to keep Neal forever off balance. If so, it was a good one, because Neal hadn't felt this helpless since his first days in training at SlaveMart.

Neal was becoming as paranoid as Mozzie, but it just seemed impossible to him that out there in the world there were actually people without hidden agendas.

At this point, Neal wasn't sure of anything. All he knew was that the moment he'd set foot in Peter's house, his master had ripped the ground out from underneath him and left him to hang on the edge with everything he had. He was trapped by a force that would continue to press on him, slowly draining away his pride and his strength and his stamina, everything that made him, well, HIM. Somehow, some way, in all his supposed naïveté, Peter had managed to do the one thing none of his masters since Moz had been able to do: tame him.

Neal didn't *want* to prove how clever he was anymore, Neal didn't *want* to impress anyone anymore, Neal didn't *want* to try and find a way around the things that blocked his path anymore. All he wanted was to be safe, to be protected, and to give himself to his master so he wouldn't have to worry about these things any more. Like a little child, holding daddy's hand, trusting him completely and accepting anything that happened simply for a sense of security.

To be honest, the idea that he was weak enough to give into these feelings really pissed him off, but not enough to fight it. This last week had been exhausting, like being put through boot camp without any orders. And, like boot camp, it had broken him down, worn him out to the point that he didn't care any more what happened to him as long as it meant he wouldn't have to feel this way any more.

It had been a long time since Neal had been pushed to his limits like this. Even prison hadn't managed to break him like this. Neal's life had been horrible during those years, but he'd known what to expect. He'd understood his place, and given it the same silent 'fuck you' that he'd given every master since meeting Moz, somehow managing to retain a sense of himself. 

It had been much longer than that since Neal was at the juncture he was now. Back before Mistress Kate, before Master Vincent, even before Mozzie. Back when he'd never expected to be anything but a slave, back when being a slave was his whole world, back when even contemplating *not* being a slave was beyond his mental capacity. Back when he'd thought that being a slave was all there was to the world, that being a slave was all there was to *him.*

The masters sort of blurred together, but Neal could remember the last master whose actions made him feel comparably helpless, though Neal hadn't known enough about the free world to even understand the concept back then. He'd been a particularly brutal master, with a real love for hurting his pretty, young slave. 

Neal didn't even know his name, not because the man had refused to tell him or because it was some big secret. Neal simply didn’t know it because he'd never asked. It hadn't even occurred to him to ask. It wasn't his place to ask. Anything Master wanted him to know, he would tell him. Why in the world would he ask?

Now this logic embarrassed and amazed him, but back then it had made sense. You wouldn't tell your sofa what your name was, so why would you tell your slave? Neal had seen no reason to ask the man. Master Fist, Neal had called him in his head, because his fists had made love to every part of his slave’s body, whether that involved punching him in the face or shoving it up his butt.

It was true that Neal had always been feisty, for a slave. Most slaves were pretty robotic, but Neal had always been creative and outspoken. It made for a low price on the auction block, but Master Fist had made good use of his new buy's skills. He'd taught Neal how to run very low level cons, and under Master Fist's watch, Neal made his first forgery. Or copy, as he'd thought of it. At the time, he hadn't even realized it was illegal, not until he and Master Fist were hightailing it out of the apartment, running from the cops.

Mozzie had been the one to save him from that master and, in turn, from his life as a nothing, a nobody, the kind of boy who didn't think to ask people their names because he was simply that far below them.

One con with Mozzie, and Neal had never been the same again. Everything he'd understood about the world was turned upside down, and his mind had bloomed like a field full of wildflowers, the wind spreading the seeds everywhere. Words with no meaning before had become the foundation of his life, things like 'me' and 'mine' and 'want' and 'take' and 'know.' Words that implied a sense of self, an urge for betterment, and a desire to have something and be someone. 

Nothing could stop it, not Master Vincent's cold discipline, not Mistress Kate's jealous passion, not even his prison hell. Through all of that, Neal had managed to hold onto those sacred things that made him more than 'only a slave.' Yet somehow, in less than a week's time, Peter had managed to strip that all away.

If that wasn't a true master, then Neal didn't know what was.

Yet another thought that Mozzie would try and bitch slap him for thinking. He was really on a roll tonight with the whole slave mentality thing.

Whether it really was simple naïveté on Peter's part or whether there were deeper games at play, Neal wasn't sure, but he knew that he hadn't felt this out of the loop since he'd said goodbye to Master Fist. He had no idea what was going on around him. Every move he made was wrong in some way, because acting like a free man was wrong, yet acting like a slave was, too. It didn't matter what Neal did, it was wrong in somebody's eyes. Screw being caught between a rock and a hard place, he was trapped in drying concrete here.

Neal was sure it would bother Peter to be compared to a man like Master Fist, but their similarities were as striking as their differences. Sure, Peter was obviously against beating the shit out of his slave, but just like with Master Fist, Neal had no idea what the next day was going to bring. With Master Fist, Neal could never be sure if he'd be a conman or a punching bag or a pet or a whore, and with Peter, he wasn't sure who he was at all. 

Also like Peter, Fist hadn't bothered to tell the slave what was what, and Neal had lived like an animal with no understanding what was going on around him, never knowing why Master left when he did or where he went or when he might come back. Another joy of being a fuckling.

Secretarial slaves, house slaves, service slaves, even cleaning slaves, had some idea of what was happening on a day to day basis. They had to, or they couldn't fulfill their duties. Fucklings, though, were treated as if they had the minds of dogs. No, less than dogs, because dogs at least got attention. With fucklings it was more along the lines of put them in position, fuck them, then walk out of the room.

It was painfully degrading. At least back then, Neal hadn't had the capacity to fully comprehend the extent of it, and your average slaves like Ian probably still didn’t. Once again, however, Neal’s intelligence had worked against him, and now the feeling was a thousand times more intense than it had been when he was a kid.

Neal hated living like this. He *hated* it. It was the ultimate insult, having a master who refused to tell you what he wanted, and it was difficult for Neal to believe that Peter didn't understand that. It would be obvious to any slave, but then free men had some strange ways of thinking. 

Hell, with the way things had been going, Peter might very well mean it as a compliment, sort of a 'you're so much like a freeman, I don't have to tell you what to do' thing. Neal could understand that in a factual sense, but that didn't make it any less taxing. To be laying here face down on a bed, waiting silently for his master to return—if he chose to return at all—made him feel like a magazine that had been set aside, its reader gone off to do better things.

Better things. Such innocuous words for such a horrible thought. So many better things than Neal. Maybe that was why Peter had vanished. He'd found something better to do. Neal could believe it.

Ian had said that Neal must be something special, to have a good master at his age, but he was wrong. Neal wasn't special at all, unless you were using ‘special’ as a synonym for a disrespectful, arrogant criminal. Here he was, being a mouthy, half assed slave who did absolutely nothing for his master other than run off and act like a prick, when his whole future rested on Peter wanting him here. 

Neal's master was getting *nothing* out of this relationship, and if Neal didn't figure out a way to fix that, Peter *would* get tired of him and Neal *would* be shipped out. The whole 'working at the FBI' thing was just ridiculous, as if Neal could actually do anything that all those Harvard grads with years and years of training couldn't do. He was only a damn slave, if a strangely intelligent one.

Honestly, that whole 'take me as a consultant' thing had really been Neal's way of giving the sadistically honorable Special Agent Peter Burke he'd built up in his head an excuse to use him as a fuck toy, or just abuse him for the hell of it. Neal had figured that a man who'd put him in a position like prison slave had to have a thing for that kind of righteous justice, and would jump on any reason to have Neal under his thumb. As it turned out, though, Neal had exceedingly misjudged his new master, and at this point he truly wasn't sure why Peter had agreed to take him at all.

There was a soft click and Neal tensed as he heard a door open. Apparently Peter had decided now was the time to come out of the closet. If he hadn't been so nervous, Neal might have made a gay pride joke.

Neal held his breath as felt the end of the mattress dip, but he didn't look up, keeping his face buried in the pillow.

"Neal," Peter said in a soft voice, "I'm going to punish you now."

Neal flinched, more from the hand that brushed his thigh than the words themselves. In fact, the words sort of pleased him, in a twisted kind of way.

"Thank you, Master," Neal replied, then realized the words were muffled by the pillow. He sucked in a breath through his nose and lifted his head up just a little. "Thank you, Master," he repeated, in a louder voice with only a slight tremble.

Peter didn't respond, and Neal went back to holding his breath. Apparently it was finally time to 'get this party started.'

o o o

Peter stared down at Neal's lithe frame. Wasn't he cold, lying there in nothing but his underwear? Why the hell had he taken his clothes off to begin with? Was this some sort of slave thing? Was getting naked some kind of ritual? Because if Peter looked at the slave's ass for too long, this was going to become… problematic.

The thought was an unpleasant reminder of Neal's little… revelation… earlier that evening.

"Neal, do you still have that…" Peter cleared his throat, cheeks going red. "That thing inside you?"

"Yes, Master," Neal replied in a dull tone, turning his face to the side so that it wasn't buried in the pillow anymore. "I still have the butt plug in."

Peter grimaced at the words. "Why the hell would you put that in, Neal? That's disgusting."

Neal flinched, eyes squeezing shut, and Peter immediately felt guilty. He hadn't meant it like *that*. It was just the thought in general that grossed him out, not Neal himself.

"I'm sorry, Master," Neal said. "I was trying to protect your property, I swear."

Protect his property? He made himself sound like a spare tire or a coffee mug. Ugh.

"Okay," Peter said, deciding to let it go for the moment, and not at all because he was a coward. He was simply mentally exhausted after the rather eventful meal at the Calloways', and he didn't think Neal felt any better. They could talk about sex toys later. Or, better yet, never.

Oh, screw it. He was being a coward. Neal needed to get that thing out of his rear end. It was obvious from the faces he made every time he moved that he was feeling it.

"It's okay, Neal, but why don't you take it out?" Peter said, doing his best to avoid the actual word 'butt plug.' "Just thinking about it makes me wince."

Neal pushed himself up onto all fours, pulling his underwear down unceremoniously, leaving his limp dick hanging between his legs, then reached back, prying apart his ass cheeks.

Peter's face went hot, and he quickly looked away, then quickly looked back, the quickly looked away again. Man, that was a nice dresser. El had such good taste. The little flowers carved into it were lovely—oh fuck it. The damn dresser had nothing on Neal.

Peter's eyes slid back to the slave, breath catching slightly as he watched the boy. God, Neal was like a freaking sculpture, every muscle defined. The slave's biceps tightened as he fumbled around between his butt cheeks, making a slight face and biting those soft, pink lips.

Peter’s cock twitched, and his cheeks went even redder. He should not be watching this, and he *really* shouldn't be getting hard from it. He wasn't a teenager, dammit! But Neal was just so *perfect.* Sculpted abs and muscular thighs and creamy skin… Even the little freckles sprinkled across his shoulder blades were perfect.

Peter noticed idly that Neal's body was strangely hairless. Had he shaved his body hair in prison? Did all slaves shave their body hair? Peter didn't know and to be truthful, he really didn't care. It was just a good excuse for why his eyes were latched on places they really shouldn't be. Just wondering about the beauty routines of slaves, no naughty thoughts here.

Yeah, right.

'Do what you want with him,' Haversham had basically said. Ha. Somehow Peter didn't think the man would have been so quick to say that if he knew the kind of things Peter imagined when he closed his eyes. Oh, God, did he have a vivid imagination…

Peter could practically see it, Neal just like he was now, but with Peter behind him, his head thrown back and whimpers coming from that pretty mouth as his master pressed into him. Or on the floor, trapped beneath Peter, unable to move, to escape, to get away, as Peter devoured his mouth, dick hard against Neal's thigh. Neal gagging as Peter shoved his cock down the boy's throat, fingers wrapped in those dark curls as he forced himself deeper and deeper…

Oh, yes, Peter had a vivid imagination, indeed. He was the Walt fucking Disney of perverts.

Peter wasn't stupid enough to feel guilty about the fantasies in general. Hell, he'd had similar fantasies about his wife, about his lover in college, about the girl in his tenth grade chemistry class. But with a lover, that was all they were, just fantasies. Even when playing rough, it was still making love. Nobody had to do anything they didn't want to. It was different with Neal, though. Neal would never have a choice. And damn did that knowledge make the fantasies intense.

Talk about a power trip. Here Peter was, sitting on a bed next to one of the most beautiful men he'd ever seen, and he could do anything he wanted. Totally, one hundred percent, anything he wanted. He didn't have to ask permission or even consult with the slave. Peter could grab Neal right now, throw him on the ground, and do absolutely anything. Nobody would care. No one would do anything. Nothing was stopping him.

You know, except Peter’s own morals. Fucking morals. Damn his hardworking all American upbringing. The one thing between him and Neal.

It was obvious from the way Neal was looking at Peter right now that he was well aware of the kind of power his master held. The knowledge was painted on his face, a mish mash of fear and wariness and grudging acceptance. It was in the way he held his body, tense but submissive, not trying to hide his private self like a freeman would, because he had no private self. He belonged to Peter.

A little whimper, just like the kind Peter had been thinking about, came from Neal as he pulled what Peter guessed was a butt plug out of his ass. It looked more like an instrument of torture to Peter, considering that it was the size of a fucking tree, but the bright turquoise color combined with the suggestive shape supported the sex toy theory.

Neal moved around on the bed until his underwear was off the rest of the way, wrapping the dildo up in his boxer briefs and setting it carefully aside, pointedly avoiding Peter's eyes. His cheeks were tinged with pink.

"It's out, Master," he said, as if Peter hadn't noticed, then dropped his head, hands slipping behind his back. His tense body actually relaxed a little as he fell into the familiar posture, and Peter wondered idly if it was a comfort to him, that particular position. He knew from the SlaveMart manual that there were a million others, but Neal always went for that one, with the arms behind the back and the thighs spread apart, buttocks on his calves.

Of course, the posture also framed Neal’s genitals which, Peter noticed with a mix of embarrassment and dismay, were beginning to harden. Eyes away, eyes away, eyes away, oh what a really nice dresser, such good workmanship—dammit! Eyes back on Neal.

Neal's cheeks went a deeper shade of red and his shoulders hunched as he followed Peter's eyes to his cock.

"I'm sorry, Master," he said in a tense voice. "I was trained to… rise to the occasion when kneeling." His tone was even enough, but the blush had flowed from his face downward to his neck and upper chest, making it painfully obvious that the boy found it humiliating. Not that Peter could blame him. He knew damn well what it felt like for his lower half to work without his brain's permission; he was just lucky enough to be wearing a pair of loose fitting jeans sewn from thick denim.

"Didn't realize you could train that," Peter said gruffly, and Neal gave a choked laugh.

"Trainers tend to use the hormonal teenage years for evil."

Peter huffed, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

Neal glanced up, licking his lips, forehead creased with worry. "Are you going to punish me now, Master?"

Right. Punishment. A whopping face full of Neal's cock had distracted Peter from his purpose. Great, naked punishment. The perfect way to keep his intentions pure.

"I called your trainer," Peter said suddenly, and Neal's head shot up, blue eyes going wide.

"What?"

"I called your trainer. Or he said he was your trainer. A Haversham guy?"

A mix of emotions too quick for Peter to decipher dashed across Neal's face, finally settling on disbelief. "How did you know about him?"

"He contacted me," Peter said with a shrug. "Invited me for a little meeting to chat about you."

"Did you go?" Neal said, a nervous lilt to his voice.

"I did," Peter replied. "He lectured me about you, I told him to fuck off. But the truth is, I don't know what to do here, Neal. I have to punish you. I have no choice. You looked me straight in the eye, right after I swore that if you told me the truth that I wouldn't punish you, and lied to me. But I don't know how to do that. I don't know how to do any of this. I've never owned a human being before. So I called your old trainer."

"Whatever he said, don't believe it," Neal said, leaning forward a little, looking a little panicked. "He's a total liberationist, everything he says is crazy, it's all Abolition City with him—"

"He said to man up and use you like my slave," Peter interrupted, and Neal cut off abruptly, looking a little shocked.

"What?"

Peter shrugged. "He said I was being selfish, ignoring your need to have a master to make myself feel better. He said that I should treat you like a slave."

"Wow," Neal muttered, actually looking a bit disturbed. "That is *not* what I expected."

Peter took a deep breath. "Neal, I am going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer me as honestly as you can, okay?"

Neal's brow furrowed, but he gave a nod. "Of course, Master."

"Do you want to be treated like a slave, Neal?" Peter felt stupid even saying it—who the hell would want to be treated like a slave?— but it needed to be stated. They'd spent enough time beating around the bush, it was time to get to the core of the issue. There had been way too many assumptions made, on both their parts, in the last few days. It was time to come clean.

Peter hadn't expected a resounding 'no,' not after getting a little insight into the world of slavery this evening, but he was surprised at the divided look on Neal's face. The slave opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again, brow furrowing deeply. He started to speak again, then came to a halt once more, reaching up to rub at his face with the heels of his hands.

"I don't know," he said in a hoarse voice, looking up at Peter with pained eyes, then he shook his head, shoulders slumping. "No, that's a lie. I do know, I just wish I didn't."

Okay… "What does that mean, Neal?" Peter asked quietly, and Neal swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing as he stared down at the quilt on the bed, tracing the edges of the patches with his fingers.

"It means yes, Master," he said in a choked voice. "Yes, I want to be treated like a slave, just as much as I want not to be treated like a slave. But I guess that's my problem, isn't it? I'm too smart to *want* to be a slave, and I’m too much of a slave to feel safe on my own. I may be an arrogant prick, but I feel safest when I have someone to tell me who I am."

Peter frowned, a little confused. "You mean someone to tell you what to do."

"No, Master," Neal said with a choked laugh. "You know me well enough to know that I mostly do what I want, what other people say be damned. I don't really need someone to tell me what to do. I can look around and see what needs to be done. I need somebody to tell me who I am, so I can recognize what I'm supposed to be doing. The question isn't, 'What do I do?', it's 'Who am I?' A prison bitch? Mistress Kate's pet? Master Vincent's assistant? My old trainer's apprentice? A SlaveMart fuckling? Those are all things that I've been. The one thing they all have in common? Being someone's something. But I don't know what I am to you, Master, so I don't know who I am." Neal's voice sounded hollow, and Peter had to resist the urge to wrap the man up in his arms.

"Neal," Peter said in a pained voice, "you are who you are. It has nothing to do with me."

"It has everything to do with you," Neal protested, looking upset. "You're my master. I am who you say I am." The words made Peter feel a little sick to his stomach. "Otherwise I'm nobody. That's why I got fucked at the office. Because he looked at me and saw nobody."

Peter took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he trudged through his dueling emotions. "Yesterday you asked when I was going to fuck you," he said, the very words making him wince. "You acted like I was playing some sort of game. Why do you want me to have sex with you, Neal? And don't say because you want it. Don't think I didn't see the fear in your eyes, even as you were saying the words." He shifted on the bed, reaching out and laying a gentle hand on Neal's shoulder, trying to ignore the little rush of adrenaline that ran through him as his fingers met that soft skin. "Tell me, Neal."

Neal swallowed hard, and his eyes dropped downward. "I need to give you something, Master," he said in a strained voice. "You're my protector, the person with the right to say no for me. You do that for me, and I do nothing for you. I have shelter, food, rest, and you have a badly behaved slave living under your roof. It isn't right. It isn't normal. I don't understand it. I don't know what you want, and it's scary. I'm not some ugly knick knack from your mother in law that you can easily stick in the closet and forget about me for the next ten years. You have to feed me and clothe me. So why are you keeping me around when I do nothing for you?"

"We've been over this, Neal," Peter said, squeezing the slave's shoulder in what he hoped seemed like a supportive way. "I want your help at work. There's no other reason." No other reason that Peter would ever admit to, anyway.

"Please," Neal said, sounding a little disgusted. "I know what men want, Master." His blue eyes locked with Peter's and it took everything he had not to look away from that all too truthful stare. "I know what you want, Master." Neal leaned forward, reaching out and touching Peter's chest. "Your breath," he said in a low voice, "it's a little too quick." His hand moved to the side. "And your heart, just a little fast. Your face and neck are red, and…" Down, down went Neal's hand, until it was hovering a few inches above Peter's crotch. "And you're getting hard."

Peter shifted uncomfortably, not entirely sure whether Neal touching him like this was exciting or disturbing.

"There's no reason not to take what you want, Master," Neal said in a husky voice. "I don't understand why you refuse."

"I'm just not that kind of person," Peter said, as if he had any moral ground to stand on with his dick rising in his pants.

"Do I disgust you?" Neal said, and Peter thought he caught a glimpse of hurt. "Like I said, there's more than one way to fuck someone, and it doesn't have to be gentle. You can fuck someone who disgusts you. You can fuck someone *because* they disgust you."

Dear Lord. Peter palmed his face, cheeks feeling like they were on fire. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck. "You don't disgust me, Neal," he said hoarsely. "And you're right. I want you. I really do." He gave a short laugh, glancing down at his pants. "Hell, it's not like I can really deny it. But just because you want something doesn't mean you get it."

"But you could have it," Neal said a little exasperatedly, obviously not understanding Peter's position at all. "There's nothing stopping you. The only reason *not* to take what you want is the consequences, and there are no consequences here."

Peter made a sound of frustration, shaking his head in disbelief. "No consequences? Neal, *you* are the consequences! The way you flinch and wince and cringe when I touch you. Those are the consequences! And I am not going to add to them. Don't you think your feelings matter, Neal?"

Neal shook his head. "No, Master. No, I really don't."

Peter let his hand fall away from Neal's shoulder, pain stabbing through him at the defeated look on the boy's face.

"Tell me this, Neal," he said in as even a tone as he could manage. "What do you think about Ian?"

"I think he's very lucky," Neal said with a small shrug. "Very, very lucky. Most fucklings don't end up in homes like that, much less with such a caring master."

A caring master, huh? Peter leaned forward, like he was telling a secret. “Did you know that ‘caring master’ has been having sex with the boy since he was in his tweens, and that for years the kid would whimper and cry the whole time?"

"Yes, Master," Neal said simply, making Peter blink. "I did know that. Ian told me."

Peter sat back, Neal's careless answer throwing him off a little. "And you think that's okay?"

Neal shook his head, thank the Lord. Apparently he wasn't totally out of his mind when it came to this stuff. "Of course it's not okay, Master. Even though he didn't mean to do it, it was still inappropriate. Ian is lucky Master Jack didn't put him down."

Okay, scratch that. God, this was unbelievable. "Are you kidding me?" Peter said, voice rising a little as images of a crying Ian stained his thoughts. "I wasn't talking about Ian being wrong! I was talking about Jack! You really think it was okay for him to have sex with a kid who was that messed up?"

"He gave him a *home,* Master," Neal said, looking as though Peter had lost his mind. "Master Jack saved his life, brought him into his house, and gave him a purpose in life. Ian owes him for that. And even if he'd been purchased through a dealer, do you think serving Master Jack came as some big surprise? Do you think he expected to be his new master's wife? We are not the same as you, Master, and we don't expect the same things. I don't know what you see when you look at me, but when I look at *you*, I see someone better than me. I have never, ever claimed to be anything but what I am. I'm a smart slave, I'm a talented slave, I'm a capable slave, but I'm still a slave. I'll never be what you are, Master. Never." Neal looked away, but not fast enough to hide the tears rising in his eyes.

God, what Peter would give to be able to shake some sense into Neal, but it wasn't going to happen, mostly because Neal was right. He *was* a slave. Even though that wasn't all Peter saw when he looked at the boy, it was all Neal saw in the mirror and, more importantly, it was what the entire world saw when they looked at him. Just another slave who was no one without a master.

Peter didn't want to accept it, but what choice did he have? The weird little man was right. Peter *was* being selfish. If Neal had been interested in becoming something other than a slave, it might be different. Then they'd be doing something together. *Then* they could be friends. But Neal had never said anything to make Peter believe that he spent his nights dreaming to be free. Peter had no right to force his beliefs on the boy, not when the slave was the one who would pay for it.

Peter took a steadying breath, letting it out slowly. Neal was still staring off at nothing, eyes twinkling in the low lamp light, and Peter reached out, resting a hand on the slave's lower back. "Come here, Neal," he said, patting lightly at his lap. "Come bend over my knees."

The words felt weird on Peter's tongue, definitely out of place. Spankings were for naughty little boys, not grown men in their thirties. Because that's what Neal was, in reality. A man, just like Peter, just like any free man with a dick. You could call him 'boy' all you wanted, but he was still a man, despite his hairless body. The half-erect cock between his legs was proof enough of that. But what else could Peter do? He wasn't going to take a belt to him, that was for sure. Of all the options, this was the best.

And if a tiny part of Peter just wanted to know what it felt like to have that lithe body bent over his knees, well, that was simply how it was.

Neal glanced over at him, looking momentarily surprised, but then he climbed off the bed, moving over until he was standing next to Peter then dropping suddenly to his knees. Peter's brow furrowed, but before he could question the movement, Neal was rising up again, in an almost ritualistic way, maneuvering himself until he was bent awkwardly over Peter's knees.

Well, Peter found it awkward, anyway. Neal didn't seem bothered at all, and somehow made it look graceful, despite the fact that his head was almost brushing the rug.

Peter did his best to ignore the pressing of Neal's dick against his leg, hoping that Neal would grant him the same, since he was most definitely rock hard against Neal's naked hip.

This was a really, really bad idea. A horrible idea. A terrible idea. What was it about bad ideas that could feel so damn good?

Peter was started to feel lightheaded as too much blood rushed downward. He considered it a blessing, though, because there was no way he could spank a thirty-something boy as if it was normal without at least a little bit of a high.

Neal's bare ass was just as appealing from this angle as it had been on the bed. Peter was pretty sure no angle existed that could make that ass look anything short of beautiful.

Okay, enough stalling. If Peter didn't get this done with, he was going to jizz in his pants like a thirteen year old boy with daddy's Playboy magazine.

Peter licked his lips, raising up a hand and letting it down with a smack. Peter wasn't sure whether it was hard or not, but seeing that it hadn't left behind any sort of mark, he guessed he'd been pretty light handed. It wasn't as if he had a lot of experience spanking people. Hell, he'd never even spanked a kid.

This time Peter brought his hand down a little harder, hard enough to sting his palm, and he felt Neal shift slightly in his lap. It left a bright red hand print behind on the slave's creamy skin.

Another strike and Neal let out a small sound of pain that made Peter's cock twitch. Oh, God, this was fucking terrible. He hadn't been this hard in forever—hell, he hadn't thought men his age could still get this hard—and there wasn't anything he could do about it.

Peter brought his hand down again, and his hand stayed on Neal's ass just a second too long before he yanked it back. Uh-uh. No fondling allowed. He needed to keep his head in the game.

The urge to wriggle around and pump his hips was almost unbearable, but somehow Peter managed. He really should have known better than to bend Neal over his lap when he was already hard as a damn rock. Rock hard and completely incapable of going any farther.

Fuck Neal's punishment. Peter was the one really in the guillotine.

o o o

Peter's hand came down on Neal's ass with a hard slap, and Neal gritted his teeth. His master wasn't hitting him very hard, but after awhile the strikes started adding up. That was how spankings went. The first few slaps were just warm up. It wasn't until you were ten or fifteen in that you *really* started to feel the burn, a rawness to your skin that didn't come any other way.

The spanking wasn't really what had Neal tense, though. It was the giant erection pressing against his hip that was making him whine. Every time Peter's hand came down, his dick would twitch, making it obvious that the man found the whole situation to be a turn on. Which would be totally fine—*if* Peter was interested in fucking him.

Neal's master's cock was pushing into his hip like it was trying to make a door, and there was nothing he could do about it. Peter had made it very clear that, despite his attraction to Neal, he had no intention of fucking him.

This was not good, not good at all. Neal's master was hard, Neal had *made* him hard, and he was just supposed to lie here and do nothing? It was his job to do something. That's what slaves were for. He needed to do something, or he wasn't a good slave. He couldn't let it be, he just couldn't. It wasn't right. It was bad, he was bad, avoiding his duties.

Logically, Neal knew that he was plummeting backward even deeper into his slave mentality, but he was too wound up to care. His heart was pumping madly, his own dick pressing into his master's leg, and his entire body felt hot. His head was light, and his ass was burning, a reminder of what a bad slave he was. He was flushed all over, and thinking seemed like a difficult chore. Way too much work when he could slip into the moment, marinating in the pleasure of serving his master.

If his master would *let* him do his job, that is.

"That's enough," Peter said abruptly, and Neal had a feeling it had less to do with what Neal deserved and more to do with how incredibly aroused his master was. It probably wouldn't take much more than a few touches to push him over the edge…

This was his chance. Operation: Woo Master had been a failure up to this point, but his master was obviously on the edge right now, just a few steps away from an intense release. If Neal could get them to that point then maybe, just maybe, Peter would see what he was missing.

Mind made up, Neal used the edge of the mattress to push himself into a sitting position, then before his master could move, he swung a leg over him so that he was straddling Peter's leg. Their cocks were pressed together, and though Peter's was trapped by stiff denim, Neal could feel him, hard and ready.

Neal reached out and grabbed Peter by the back of the head, pulling him forward until their lips were pressed together, hot and sticky. Simultaneously, he began to lightly thrust with his hips, rubbing their dicks together, and Peter made a choked noise.

The kiss was one sided, Neal's tongue foraging his master's unresponsive mouth, but Peter didn't pull away. Neal took that as permission to continue, reaching down with one hand and unbuttoning Peter's jeans, slipping in underneath the man's boxers until his finger were wrapped around the head of his cock.

Peter whimpered then, starting to pull back, but Neal pulled him closer, tugging at the man's dick as his thumb massaged the velvety tip.

Heart pounding, Neal kept thrusting his hips frantically, though he knew very well he wouldn't be able to get off. Not without his master's permission. Fucking training. It still felt good to try, even if it was frustrating as hell, so Neal kept going.

It didn't take long, maybe a minute at most, but when his master came it was with a cry, fingers digging hard into Neal's arms as the man's body sort of shook and Neal felt a sticky wetness dripping down his hand.

Peter pulled back from Neal's lips, panting hard as he stared at his slave with wild, confused eyes, his brow furrowing up.

"No," he muttered, shaking his head, his face turning bright red. "No. This… This was not… Oh, God."

Neal let out a short cry as Peter gave him a hard shove, almost sending him toppling to the floor. Neal managed to catch himself, and Peter sort of crawled backward on the bed, staring at Neal in disbelief.

"Oh, God, I cannot believe I… SHIT!"

Neal flinched as Peter reached out and punched the mattress as hard he could.

"Dammit, Neal!" Peter shouted, hitting the mattress again, and Neal stumbled backward, eyes wide.

The mattress got in another punch, then another, and for the first time Neal realized how lucky he really was that his master wasn't a beater. Master Fist's punches were nothing compared to the ones Peter was dishing out to the innocent mattress. The man must have boxed or done martial arts or something, because he knew how to hit. God, he knew how to hit.

Please, please, dear Lord, don't let him decide to hit Neal.

"What's going on?" The door to the hall swung open, revealing a worried looking El. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in Neal's naked body, but she quickly moved on to the real issue at hand.

"Peter, what are you doing?"

"Dammit, Neal!" Peter said again, and Neal physically flinched as the man hit the mattress once more. "Damn, damn, DAMN!"

"Peter, stop it, you're scaring him!"

It was true, Peter's little display *was* scaring Neal. In fact, he had backed himself into the corner without noticing. But at least he didn't have any bruises from it. Yet.

Apparently, a sharp word from his wife was all it took to tame Peter, because the man immediately came to a stop on all fours, head hanging down and breath coming in fast pants. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, then looked over at Neal, wincing as their eyes met.

"Sorry, Neal," he said quietly, sounding like someone had just told him his dog had died or something. "So sorry. I shouldn't have… Dammit!"

El glanced back and forth between them, looking confused and upset. "Does someone want to tell me what's going on?"

Neal's face went red at the words, a feeling of guilt washing over him. In all of his scheming, he hadn't even stopped to think how it might affect his master's wonderful wife. This would hurt El, and El didn't deserve to be hurt. He had to do something. He had to fix this.

"It was my fault," Neal said, in perfect chorus with Peter, and he looked over sharply at his master. "Sir, it wasn't your fault."

"Bullshit," Peter replied, voice heavy with guilt. "It *was* my fault. I should never have put you in that position."

"Master, I took advantage of it on purpose," Neal said, feeling just as guilty as Peter sounded. "I knew you wouldn't be able to say no."

"Would somebody like to fill me in on what we're talking about here?" El said, though from the look on her face Neal was pretty sure she already had an idea of what had happened.

Neal swallowed down the lump in his throat as he met her sweet, innocent blue eyes. "I'm sorry, Mistress," he said in a hoarse voice. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done it."

"No, *I* shouldn't have done it," Peter protested, looking upset.

"No, I shouldn't—"

"Okay, you know what? That's enough." El glared at them, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm sick of this. It's like watching a really bad soap opera. 'Slaves of Our Lives,' or something. Neal, get your clothes on. Peter, go change your pants. This show has a new director."


	25. Lights, Camera, Action!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which El plays therapist again, Neal and Peter switch places, and the difference between punishment and humiliation is learned.

"You. Sit there," El said, pointing at the armchair across from the couch, then shook her head when Peter made a move in that direction. "Not you. Him." She nodded toward Neal, who was still hovering on the stairs, in his butt naked glory. Under any other circumstances the fact that his man parts were hanging limp between his legs for all the world to see might have made her blush, but right now she was all business.

"And you, husband of mine. Bend over the couch."

Peter's eyebrows shot up, his face a cartoon of disbelief. He pointed toward himself, and she gave him a sharp nod.

"That's right, you. And drop your pants before you do it. I'll be right back."

With those words El marched toward the kitchen without another look, as if there was no doubt in her mind that her boys would do exactly as she said. In reality, she was pretty sure they'd still be exactly where she left when she returned, but it didn't matter. They'd be doing what she said soon enough.

She pulled open a drawer, rooting through it as she looked for the most appropriate instrument for this little scene. Spatula? Too stiff. Wooden spoon? Too heavy. Egg beater? Nah, wrong kind of beating. And there it was—the perfect tool.

Her favorite vegetable strainer, ready to serve up a single helping of carrots or broccoli or (in this case) whoop ass, whichever she decided to cook up that day.

El took a deep breath, doing her best to center herself and steady her emotions. Right now she had to set aside her feelings about the little… situation… she'd walked into and focus on the real issue at hand: Mending Peter and Neal's completely fucked up relationship.

She turned on her heel and made her way back into the little living room where—surprise, surprise—Neal was still hovering uncertainly on the stairs as Peter stared at the couch with something akin to horror.

El put her hands on her hips, glaring at her boys. "Funny, I thought I gave you gentlemen some instructions. Something about Neal and a chair, Peter and a couch…" She frowned, forehead crinkling up as she feigned deep thought. "But I must have been mistaken, because if I had then surely the two of you wouldn't still be standing here, staring at me with your jaws on the floor."

Peter took a step toward her, holding out his arms to her. "Please, El," he said, eyes filling with tears, "I am so sorry. Please forgive me."

"There will be no forgiving right now," El responded primly. "Pants on the floor. Ass over the couch. Now!"

Peter flinched at the harsh command, and El almost felt sorry for her husband… Almost. She had, after all, just walked in on him getting a hand job from their house slave without her permission. What *would* Miss Manners have to say?

"El, I don't know what this is about," Peter said, looking embarrassed, "but I really think we ought to sit down and talk about this."

"The only one I want sitting is *him,*" El said, pointing her Kitchen Aid tool of torture in Neal's general direction. "As for you, I suggest you unbutton those nasty, wet jeans of yours and get them down around your ankles before I decide to shove this thing where the sun doesn't shine and direct you into the position myself."

"Ms. El, please," Neal said, creeping down the stairs like a frightened cat, one careful step at a time. "I swear, it was all my fault—"

"Because everything is always your fault, right honey?" El said. "Well, not tonight. In fact, if I hear you say it was your fault one more time, I'm going to shove this thing down your throat." She waved the spoon threateningly. Well, as threateningly as a spoon could be waved.

Neal's straightened up and his patented con job smile appeared on his face, though it did look a little stiffer than usual. "Okay Ms. El," he crooned as he made his way toward the chair she had assigned him, holding his hands out in the international sign of surrender. "Whatever you say."

At least one of her boys knew how to deal with an angry woman.

Not that El was *really* angry, of course. Was she? Hell, she wasn't sure *what* she was, actually—she was feeling kind of numb—but she was clear on one thing. If someone didn't take control of this situation then this little snowball of miscommunication would soon expand into an avalanche, burying both her boys, and that was simply unacceptable.

Once Neal was perched nervously on the edge of the chair, hands surreptitiously covering his private parts, El turned her attention back to Peter, who was still standing in front of her with a look of confusion on his face and jeans firmly in place.

"Peter," she said, looking him straight in the eye. "I asked you to remove your pants and bend over the couch. Please do so."

Peter first looked right, and then left, like maybe he expected a reality show host to burst out of nowhere and scream "you've been punked!" Unfortunately for them all, this was no game. No, the events of tonight were most definitely real. One hundred percent cold, harsh reality.

"Elizabeth," Peter said, face turning a deep shade of red as sweat began to bead on his forehead, "what are you doing?"

"What do you think I'm doing?" El replied in a snippy tone. "I'm asking you to bend over the couch. It's really not all that complicated." She raised an eyebrow pointedly, and her hubby began to shift his weight from foot to foot, wringing his hands nervously.

"Okay," he said, faking a laugh, "I get it. Very funny. A good joke. But could we please sit down and talk about this now?"

"A good joke?" El questioned, hands on her hips. "Are you saying that you think our marriage is a joke?"

"What?" Peter said, obviously panicked. "No! Of course not! Our marriage is most definitely not a joke!"

"Then bend over the couch," El retorted, and this time Peter actually turned to look at the couch, huffing lightly.

"You *really* want me to bend over the couch?"

"And drop your pants," she said, tapping the strainer lightly against her hand. "You've been a very bad boy, Peter, and you deserve to be punished."

If El had thought Peter was red before, now he was giving Elmo a run for his money.

"I am not going to do that," he said through gritted teeth. "And don't talk to me like I'm a little boy."

A little boy, or a *slave*.

"You're a boy if I say you're a boy," she said, stepping toward her hubby until their upper bodies brushed against one another. "You have two choices," she said, lifting up on her tippy toes so she could meet his eyes. When she spoke, her voice was cold, despite the fact that being this close to her husband always warmed her up, this time being no exception. "I'm giving you a choice, Peter. You can either drop your pants and bend over that couch, or you can dial up the lawyer and ask him to start filing the divorce papers."

Peter's eyes flashed with fear, and guilt flooded El's heart, but she didn't allow it to show on her face. This was for Peter's own good. For all their good. Someone had to take control of this situation or somebody was going to get hurt. Not that every single one of them hadn't already been hurt, but El had a feeling that if something didn't change soon then there was a lot more pain on the horizon.

"I-I…" Peter glanced back at the couch again, swallowing hard. "I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?" Neal spoke up suddenly, sounding shocked. "You love her more than anything in the world, and you can't bend over a damn couch for her?" He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Master, but you're out of your mind."

El hid a smile. You had to love a romantic.

Peter's eyes narrowed at the slave. "You don't understand."

"I may be a slave, but I'm not stupid," Neal shot back. "I would do anything for *my* wife." He paused. "I mean, if I was allowed to have a wife."

"Thank you for your support, Neal," El said, holding the veggie strainer out to him. "This is for you."

Neal's eyes locked on it, and his shoulders slumped, a defeated look coming over his features. "Of course, Mistress El," he said in a low voice. "I am happy to take my punishment."

"Oh you're not taking the punishment," El said.

Neal blinked, brow furrowing up. "Okay… Then why do I need that?"

El flashed a bright smile. "Because you're going to be giving it."

o o o

Neal stared at the metal spoon in disbelief, a sick feeling rising in his gut. Ms. El couldn't mean what he thought she meant. He must have misheard, misunderstood, misinterpreted, *mis-something*.

"I'm sorry, Mistress," he said in a shaky voice, "but I don't understand."

"There isn't much to understand," El said, still holding out the spoon. "Peter has been bad. You are going to punish Peter."

Neal's gut twisted and his heart started to pound. Ms. El wanted him to beat his master? This was even more insane than Master risking his marriage over one little spanking. "I-I'm sorry, but I can't do that, Ms. El," he said, feeling a little lightheaded. "He's my master. I can't hit my master."

"I'm your mistress," she replied in a logical tone. Because this was all so very logical. "And I'm his wife, which is basically the same thing as being his mistress, if we're honest. So he is going to drop his pants and bend over that couch, while you are going to take this strainer and whack the shit out of him. Comprende?"

Neal stared at her in disbelief. What was this, some kind of twisted revenge for pleasuring her husband? Forcing him to hit Peter so that Peter could turn around and beat him again, but for real this time? Like he had pummeled that bed? Or maybe a way to get him arrested? Force him to attack a free man so he would be sent back to prison? Surely that wasn't it. It couldn't be. Could it?

Neal wouldn’t have thought Ms. El was capable of such cruel machinations, but then she wouldn't be the first free person he had underestimated. Nor the first free person who had betrayed him.

But then, really, he had been the one who betrayed her, hadn't he? In fact, she had been nothing but kind to him, giving him a towel and keeping his secrets and offering to swoop in and save him from the hat stealer at the push of a button. Yet he had repaid her by seducing her beloved husband, using his fuckling wiles to trap Peter, forcing the man to break his vows to the woman he loved just so Neal could feel a little more secure in his place.

What kind of fucked up slave was he?

Neal held back a sob as he stepped forward and gingerly accepted the spoon from El, staring down at the utensil like it was his worst nightmare. And, technically, it was.

"Peter, if you love me then you will do as I say." El's soft voice broke Neal out of his maudlin thoughts, and he looked up, eyes widening in astonishment as he saw tears shining in his master's eyes, fists clenched in obvious frustration. Why in the world was Peter crying? Was he really that afraid of a stupid little spoon? It wouldn't even hurt that bad.

"Elizabeth," Peter said in a hoarse voice, a look of shame on his face, "I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't. You know how big my stupid ego is. I'm sorry, but I just can't."

"Master, I don't think this is a good time for joking," Neal said, as if that wasn't obvious.

Peter turned to look him in the eye. "It's no joke, Neal. I can't do this. It goes against everything I believe in. Relationships are supposed to be about equality and friendship and love. Not revenge and punishment and humiliation."

Neal's mouth dropped open. Surely Peter wasn't going to lose his wife over one stupid little whipping? Not even a whipping. Barely more than a spanking. Ms. El was pretty much the perfect woman… Would he really give that up? She had all the looks of Kate plus the brains of Mozzie—minus the insanity— and the sympathy of… of… actually, he had never met anyone as sympathetic as Ms. El. Surely Peter wasn't going to choose his *ego* over El.

"So what you did a few minutes ago, the way you went behind my back and touched a slave who couldn't say no if he wanted to… That was equality, Peter? That was your definition equality and friendship and love?" El's gaze didn't waver as Peter flushed and crossed his arms, hugging his chest protectively.

"No," he said, tears still threatening to spill over. "No, absolutely not."

"Then do it, Peter," El whispered in a voice as soft as it was commanding. It was the kind of voice that made Neal want to drop to his knees and quiver at a person's feet. Damn, he had never met a mistress who was so, well, *masterly* before.

Peter's jaw clenched, adam's apple bobbing as he eyed his wife, his body stiff with tension.

"Master," Neal whispered, glancing back and forth between Peter and El. He could not be the one responsible for destroying their marriage. He really couldn't be. "Just do it. Please. It's no big deal."

Peter shook his head rapidly, as if trying to clear it, then ran his big, sweaty hands through his hair, leaving it a spiky mess. Sweat stains were starting to show at his pits and, if Neal wasn't mistaken, it looked as though his knees were literally shaking.

"Please, El, let's just sit down and—"

"Bend over, Peter! RIGHT NOW!"

Neal and his master both leapt into the air at the shout, staring at El in disbelief. Neal had never even imagined Ms. El raising her voice like that. It didn't seem possible that such fury could come from that cheerful self. It was so out of character that it was almost unbelievable. In fact, it was unbelievable.

Ms. El had overplayed the con.

Neal's eyes narrowed as his mind began to turn. This wasn't Ms. El, standing here in front of them. It was somebody else, a character she'd made up in her mind. However, she obviously hadn't put the kind of work into it that Neal did, because her cover was blown, to him at least. Peter… not so much. He was still standing there with a look of terror on his face. But Neal wasn't fooled, not anymore. Ms. El was up to something, hopefully something that *didn't* end in the filing of divorce papers, and Neal could either call her bluff or play along.

As if Neal would ever pass on a good con job.

While El's out of character actions had set off alarms all over Neal's con artist brain, it looked like they were just enough to startle Peter into action, making Neal wonder for an instant how well the man actually knew his wife. His master lumbered slowly over to the couch and, with a look of pain on his face, bent over the arm. It was more than a little awkward, that big body bent over the slim couch, but Neal had seen worse positions. Had been in them, actually.

El shook her head, painting a look of disappointment on her face. "I said take off your pants first."

Peter pushed himself up abruptly, eyes narrowing. "I am not taking my damn pants off."  
"Then I guess you don't love me." The words were flippant, but the look on El's face was not. She was dead serious. Or was acting dead serious, anyway. Hopefully Neal's instincts were right, because if they weren't then Peter's marriage was about to go down the drain over the stupidest things Neal could imagine.

Peter wasn't moving, and Neal shook his head in disbelief. Master had better hope this was a con job. All this over one stupid spanking? It was Ms. El, for God's sake! If it had been Mistress Kate, Neal would have bent over in a second.

They stood there for a long time, eyes locked together, and just when Neal thought Ms. El was going to drop the con and take off—possibly for real—Peter dropped his head, letting out a deep sigh.

"Alright," he whispered. "I'll do it, okay? I'll do it for you."

o o o

Peter's face burned as he fumbled with the button on his jeans, a task that suddenly seemed much more difficult than it had when Neal slim body was draped over his lap. He hadn't felt this humiliated since his first day at the Academy, when he'd been singled out by one of his superiors and forced to strip down to his underpants and do a hundred pushups in front of the other candidates. He'd been scrawny back then, pushing nothing but paper, and had stood out like a sore thumb amongst all the brawny jocks that made up most of his class. He remembered their laughter, their snide remarks, their crude innuendos like it was yesterday.

'Tighty Whitey,' they'd all called him, or 'Peter Privates'—at least until he started kicking their asses in pretty much everything and had been assigned as trainee head of their class. Then they'd had no choice but to call him 'sir.' After that horrible year, he had sworn to himself that no one—no one—would ever put him down like that again. He had rights as a human being, and he wasn't going to let anyone violate them. Except El wasn't those idiots cadets. She was his wife who he loved, and who he'd betrayed.

He deserved this. He really did.

Peter slid his zipper down slowly, feeling sick to his stomach at the mere idea of actually dropping his pants and bending over that damn couch. He knew it was stupid—there was no one here to see other than his wife and his goddamn slave—but he couldn't help it. The act was just plain degrading, no matter how many people saw it. The essence of dehumanization—forced to bend over a couch like a naughty schoolboy. But what else could he do? It should have been an easy choice—a lost wife or a bruised ego. You hardly needed to think about it. And yet he did.

Talk about a swollen head.

Peter swallowed hard and pushed down his jeans, pausing for a moment before dropping his plaid boxers, too. His cock hung limply between his legs, and he couldn't help but try and cover himself with his hands. It was horrible, being exposed like this. How the hell did slaves deal with this?

"Now go lean over the couch."

Peter nodded and began to shuffle toward the couch, the jeans around his ankles effectively hobbling him. He snuck a glance at Neal, wondering if the slave was silently laughing at him. He had to be. The great and powerful Peter Burke, FBI agent extraordinaire, bent over a couch by a woman half his size. He'd be laughing, if he was Neal.

Peter bent over slowly, biting his lip as he tried to find a comfortable position. There really wasn't one to be found—he was too tall for this—and finally he just gave up, letting his upper arms sink into the couch and his ass jut up at an awkward angle.

"Good boy," El said, making Peter's cheeks burn. He wasn't a 'boy,' dammit. He was a man. "Now Neal. Come stand here behind him."

Peter didn't really want to look at his slave, didn't want the see the derision in the other man's eyes, but he couldn't stop himself, craning his neck then furrowing his brow at what he saw. It definitely wasn't laughter. In fact, 'terror' might have been a better definition for Neal's wide eyes and pale face.

"I can't, Ms. El," Neal said in a hoarse voice, clutching the spoon El had given him to his bare chest. "Please don't make me. Please don't."

"It's okay, Neal," Peter said, surprising himself with the words. "Just do it."

Neal stared down at him, shaking his head over and over again. His eyes had begun to shine, and Peter had a feeling that the man was about to burst into tears, though he didn't have a clue why. Peter was the one stuck in this humiliating position, pants around his fucking ankles, waiting to be spanked by the slave he'd chased for three straight years.

"Neal, don't you think he deserves it?" El asked softly, and Neal shook his head, though his face didn't look so very certain.

"After what happened tonight, you don't think he deserves this?" she prodded, and Neal finally looked up, face serious.

"He's my master, Ms. El."

"Right." El took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, a thoughtful look on her face. "Okay, let's pretend for a moment. Let's pretend that Peter isn't your master, that he's just a slave, okay?" El reached out, brushing Neal's curls. "Let's say that *you're* the master."

"But I can't be—"

El held up a hand, and Neal fell silent. "Neal… You had intimate relations with my husband. Behind my back. Don't you think that you owe me a few minutes of role playing, at the very least?" She caught his eye, raising an eyebrow at him. He stared at her and then gave a small, sharp nod.

"Yes, Ms. El," he said quietly. "At the very, *very* least."

El smiled. "That's a good boy. Now, like I was saying… let's pretend that you're the master, and Peter is the slave."

Neal made a small noise of distress, and El moved toward him.

"Okay, okay," she murmured, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close to her. "You're not the master… You're another slave. How about that? A slave higher up in the household, like Ian is to Toby. Can you handle that?" Neal didn't respond, and she gave him a soft nudge. "Neal, can you handle that?"

Neal looked at her for a long time before responding in a soft voice, "Yes, Ms. El. I can handle that."

"Good. Now, let's pretend that you've just walked in on him with some other free man, without your permission. You don't entirely blame him—after all, he's only a slave and he can't really say no—but, at the same time, he knows that he is supposed to go to his master before servicing other people. Do you think this," she gestured in Peter's general direction, "is a fair punishment? And please, be honest. As if you were talking about a fellow slave."

Neal ran a hand nervously through his hair, licking his lips, before answering. "Yes, Ms. El. This is an appropriate punishment. A forgiving punishment, even."

Another smile bloomed on El's face. "So if Peter was a slave, and it was your job to punish him, would you have any trouble doing so?"

Neal took a deep breath, letting it out in a whoosh, eyes locking on Peter's face. "No, Mistress, I wouldn't have any trouble punishing him."

"You would just hit him with that," El pointed at the strainer, "and then be done with it."

"That's right," Neal replied, his voice barely above a whisper as he stared down at the instrument in his hand.

"And how long would it take you?"

"Five minutes, perhaps? No more than that."

El nodded. "And then it would be done, finished, over."

"Yes, Mistress," Neal said.

"Alright, then that's what I want you to do. You are the, I don't know… the alpha slave? And Peter is the slave in your household who's misbehaved. Now go punish him."

Neal visibly shivered. "I don't… I can't… Oh, God." He buried his face in his hands, his whole body shaking, and suddenly Peter's ego didn't feel so big anymore. So what if he was bent over a goddamn couch with his pants hanging around his ankles? It had been his choice to cheat and, technically, his choice to do as his wife said when she ordered him to bend over. He *could* have walked out of the room if he wanted to, marriage be damned. He hadn't stayed because he had to—he'd stayed because he wanted to keep his wife. Neal, on the other hand… Neal had no choices at all.

"It's okay, Neal," Peter said in a soothing voice. "You have my permission. I want you to, okay? In fact, it's an order. I saw today how you took charge of the Toby situation. Do the same thing to me."

Neal's brow furrowed, and Peter could practically see his mind whirring. Was it a trap? Was it a trick? Would Master reward him? Punish him? Love him? Hurt him?

"No tricks, Neal," he said firmly. "Just do what my wife says."

There was a long silence and, for a moment, Peter thought Neal was actually going to refuse, direct order be damned, but then he whispered, "Okay," and moved toward the couch, standing behind Peter.

"Just another slave, Neal," Peter said gently, all the pain and the humiliation having trickled away as he watched Neal trying to be strong as he fought his years of twisted training. "Go ahead and—Shit!"

Peter clenched his teeth as the unexpected blow landed on his ass. Wow, who would have thought that a veggie strainer could sting like that?

He grunted a little as the next blow landed, but he was ready for the third and didn't even flinch. Honestly, once the original shock of it was over, it wasn't that big of a deal. Neal obviously wasn't hitting him very hard, and it seemed like his butt got more numb with each strike anyway.

Four… Five… Six… Seven… Eight…

Hell, this didn't even hurt as much as the paddling his frat brothers had given him his freshman year.

"Ten," Neal said in a surprisingly calm voice as he suddenly appeared back in Peter's view. The scared, uncertain boy from a moment before was gone, and a man stood before him, a resolute look on his face. He dropped down to his knees and reached out, cupping Peter's cheek with his hands as he directed their faces together, foreheads touching.

"No shame on you," Neal said, repeating the strangely ritualistic phrase Peter had heard Ian say to Neal back in the kitchen. It was obvious it had some serious meaning behind it, at least to a slave, but Peter wasn't sure how to respond.

"Um, thank you?" Peter said, hoping that was an acceptable response. Apparently it wasn't a total slave faux pas, because Neal gave him a soft smile.

"And that, my dears," El said, the fire gone from her eyes and a cheerful smile pasted on her face, "is a wrap." She moved across the room and pulled her camera phone off the top of the TV, chuckling as she held it up for all to see. "I think we have an Academy Award winner on out hands."

o o o

"Just sit down, Master," Neal said through gritted teeth as Peter glared at his wife, a less than amused look on his face.

"You filmed us. You seriously filmed us? Why the hell would you do that?"

"I will tell why you once you *sit down*," Ms. El said for what had to be the fiftieth time. "Here you go, Neal." She handed him a brightly colored afghan, which he gratefully wrapped around his naked body as he shifted into a more comfortable position on the couch. The whole sitting on furniture thing was actually really nice. He sure was going to miss it when he went back to prison, which is where he was fairly sure he was headed. He *had* whacked the shit out of his master, after all.

"Fine," Peter snapped as he dropped down on the sofa next to Neal, arms crossed over his chest, the look on his face reminiscent of a pouty child's. He smelt like sweat and sex and anger—you know, if anger was actually a smell.

Neal inched away from him as subtly as possible, though he was pretty sure he was off his master's radar for at least the next few minutes—Peter's glare of death was reserved entirely for his wife right now.

Ms. El was fiddling with the TV, hooking up her phone to it, and a moment later Peter's red face erupted on the small screen, making Peter groan and cover his eyes, his big shoulders hunched miserably.

On screen, his hoarse voice whispered, "Please, honey, I—" El held out the remote, hitting a button, and the TV went mute.

"We don't need sound," she said when Neal shot her a curious look. "I just want you two to watch each other for a few minutes. Then we'll delete it, okay? It will be as if it never existed."

Peter's fists clenched in his lap, but unsurprisingly he didn't argue. After all, Ms. El had some pretty serious shit hanging over his head, thanks to Neal and his whorish escapades. Talk about a terrible night. First he got caught jacking off his master by said master's wife, then he had to beat the same master with a freaking spoon, and now he had to sit next to him and relive every moment.

"So tell me, Neal, what do you see?" El's voice was all brisk and professional, like a damn psychiatrist.

Neal rubbed tiredly at his forehead as he watched the screen. "I don't know, Mistress," he said, sighing. "An angry master?" Hopefully she would be happy with that.

"Angry?" She pursed her lips. "I don't see much anger there, Neal. Look harder."

Neal licked his lips, focusing in on his master.

"Shame," he said quietly. "Master is ashamed. He is—" Neal paused halfway through the sentence, shaking his head. No, that wasn't the right word, either. Slaves felt shame when they'd done wrong, and no doubt Peter was ashamed of the things that Neal had tricked him into doing, but shame didn't quite describe the figure on the screen before him. Hell, if it had been Neal who was called out by the woman he loved, the shame would have completely overwhelmed him, and he would have been desperate to do as Mistress said. He would have been begging to take his punishment, to be forgiven of his sins, but obviously Master wasn't wired in the same way.

Neal's eyes narrowed as he studied Peter's sweaty red face, his clenched fists, his shaking shoulders… Everything about the man screamed one word. It felt foreign to Neal, at least in this situation, but somehow he knew it was right. More than shame, more than fear, more than guilt, Master felt…

"Humiliation. Master is… humiliated."

o o o

"Humiliation. Master is… humiliated."

Peter didn't understand the shock in Neal's voice. The way the boy spoke, it was as if he'd had some giant epiphany, angels singing down from the clouds, that sort of thing. But about what? Of *course* Peter had been humiliated. What else did you feel when someone yanked down your pants and bent you over a couch?

"Thank you, Neal. Now, what do you see, Peter?" El asked, and he jerked his attention back to the TV. Video Neal was now standing behind him, spoon raised in the air, a strangely confident look on his face. It was the same exact look that left Peter wanting to smack the boy in the face only a few hours ago; the same exact look Neal had when he'd threatened to kill a little boy's beloved toy. But now that Peter thought about it, the look wasn't foreign to him. In fact, he'd seen it in many a time before, in the mirror. It was the look he wore before he took down bad guys and saved innocent people from unwarranted pain. It was the look of a man who knew he was doing the right thing.

"He thinks it's right," Peter whispered, eyes locked on the scene unfolding before him. "He's happy to hit me. The slave. Me. Whatever. He thinks that he's helping me. He thinks he's doing a good thing. Beating a bad slave… It's easy for him, because he thinks it's right. He thinks it means he cares. He really, truly thinks it means he cares."

o o o

El gave her husband a soft smile as she settled down on the couch next to him, wrapping her arms around his stiff body. "Yes," she said quietly. "He does. And if he finds it easy to punish a bad slave…"

"Then he thinks that it's easy for me to punish a bad slave," Peter finished, voice barely above a whisper. "Because I'm the sort of man who does what's right. And punishing slaves is right. So if I don't punish a bad slave, then it means I don't care about him. Because if I cared about him, I would do what's right." Tears were shining in her honey's eyes.

"Do you understand now, Neal?" El asked, leaning forward so she could see the slave around Peter's body. He was clinging to the afghan she'd given him like a life line, eyes locked on the floor. "You think it's easy for him, because it would be easy for you. It *is* easy for you, if it's another slave. But it's not. It's not easy for him, not like it would be for you. And just like you think that punishing a slave is easy for Peter, he thinks that taking punishment is humiliating for you. Not shameful. Not deserved. Humiliating. Really, truly humiliating"

Neal looked over sharply at Peter, blue eyes narrowing. "You really think that?"

"Of course he does," El said with a shrug. "Because it's how he would feel if he was in your place." She gestured toward the television. "The evidence is there—you said so yourself."

Neal shook his head, looking confused. "But… there's a difference between humiliation and punishment. It's not humiliating to be punished, not if you did something you shouldn't have. That's the definition of punishment. It's a consequence."

"But the owner's manual said, right there in black and white, that humiliation and degradation were acceptable forms of punishment," Peter protested, eyes going dark. El wondered idly what other messed up things he'd found in that manual. She'd have to glance over it sometime. It was, after all, pretty much an overview of what Neal's entire life had been like up until now.

Neal's mouth opened and shut, then he shook his head again. "Master… whacking someone's ass with a serving spoon is not humiliation. There are plenty of ways to punish a slave through humiliation, but spanking is not one of them. Spanking is black punishment, like any sort of physical punishment. Humiliation is white punishment. It's psychological."

“But bending over a couch to be whacked with a spoon is humiliating!" Peter said, cheeks reddening at the memory. "Call it what color you want—it's degrading."

Neal sat back, looking like he wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. "Oh God, Master," he said, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "You are such a free man. Trust me when I say that there is not a single slave out there who considers an innocent spanking to be white punishment."

"Fine then," Peter snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. "What *would* be white punishment then?"

Neal sighed, sinking down lower on the couch. "Do you really want me to answer that, Master?" he asked in a soft voice.

"Yes," Peter said, pushing El's arms away so that he could lean closer to Neal. "Yes, I want to know. I need to know, because if I don't know, then I might cross that line someday. And I never, ever want to cross that line."

Neal looked over at him, his usually shining blue eyes dulled. "Then I take it you won't be happy if I tell you that you already have?"

Peter's whole body went tense. "Excuse me?" he said, words tight.

Neal shrugged. "I'm not saying you meant to. In fact, I'm pretty sure you didn't mean to at all. But every time you told me how much I deserved to be in that prison doing the things I did…. Every time you reminded me that I could go back any day… That was white punishment at its best. Humiliation and terror, all balled up into a few little words." He shuddered visibly. "Bend me over the damn couch, put me on my knees, fuck me in public—I don't really care. But please, please, please don't tell me I deserved that, because it hurts so much more than any fist." He sniffled and lowered his face, probably to try and hide the tears shining in his eyes.

"No," Peter said, shaking his head. "You can't say that. You can't say that it doesn't hurt, because I've seen the look in your eyes, Neal. I've seen how you look at me when you're on your knees. You *do* care. It's not easy for you."

Neal took a deep breath, letting it out with a whoosh as he glared over at Peter. "Fine, okay, I admit it. Sometimes my ego gets a little puffed up, and I get all sassy and shit. I've spent so much time playing above my station that sometimes I get annoyed when masters put me in my place. But that stuff… it's not truly humiliating, not like it would be to, well, I guess to you." His eyes flickered to the television set then back to Peter, an annoyed look blooming on his face. "There's a difference between humility and humiliation, Master. Putting me on my knees reminds me that I am supposed to be humble—something we all know I suck at. But it's not humiliating, not like—" He cut off in mid-sentence, pausing to take another deep breath before continuing. "Not like some of the stuff that's been done to me." The words fell flat, and El knew they weren't the ones he'd intended to speak.

Apparently her husband agreed, because he said, "Not like what, Neal?"

Neal turned his face away, shaking his head, and Peter reached out, gently touching his arm.

"Please, Neal, tell me. Not like what?"

Neal sniffled again, then ran an arm harshly across his eyes, wiping away the tears threatening to fall. "Not like anything."

"Neal," Peter said, voice rising, “not like what?"

"Like getting fucked in a slave depository by a man your master despises, making it clear to half the slaves in the building that you are such cheap stock your master doesn't even consider it worth the effort to scribble half a sentence to protect your ass from getting fucked by everybody and their cousin Bob, too!" Neal's eyes flashed with anger, then it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and he dropped his gaze back to the ground, staring at it like it held the answers to the universe. "That's humiliating," he whispered, so low that it was barely audible, his voice cracking on the words. "That's what humiliation is."

"Oh God, Neal," Peter whispered, reaching out and wrapping his arms around Neal's shoulders, pulling him close against him. For a moment Neal stiffened, gaze jerking over to El, but she just smiled and he relaxed into the embrace, body going limp. "I'm so sorry, buddy. I never meant… I didn't know… Hell that's no excuse. I should have known. That's my duty as your master." He kissed the top of Neal's head. "I am so sorry."

"I'm sorry too," Neal whispered, craning his neck to stare up at Peter. "I forced you into being a master. You never wanted that. Everything that's happened? It's my fault. Your boss tried to warn me, but I didn't listen. I should never have offered myself to you."

"Don't say that," Peter said gruffly, running a hand through the other man's curls. "Don't *ever* say that to me again, because I wouldn't trade having you here for anything. That's an order. I'm the one who should be sorry. I made so many assumptions…" He shook his head, a glazed look coming over him. "All these years in Vice Collar, and I didn't have a clue. I thought by steering clear of slavery after work that I was getting away from what I knew, but in reality I was just hiding from what I didn't know—because I didn't *want* to know. When you came along, I had two choices. I could pretend you were something you're not and keep my blinders on, or I could see you for what you are and see the world for it is. I made the wrong choice, and you were the one who took the fall. I am most definitely the one who should be sorry. Not you."

"I think," El said softly, drawing both of their attention to her, "that maybe this would be a good time to start over. For real this time, completely, from scratch, as if tomorrow is Neal's very first day in this house. What do you boys think?"

Peter bit his lip, guilt washing over his face as he looked at her. "But I betrayed you."

"No," Neal protested, pushing himself away from Peter. "It was me. I tricked him. It was my fault. *I* was the one who betrayed you."

El held up a hand, silencing them both. "It wasn't any one person's fault. So many things that led up to what happened, but I am willing to start over if you are. This time, though, we'll do it right. Everyone will know where they stand." She gave Neal a soft smile. "Everyone will know their place. Are we all okay with that?"

"Yes," Peter said hoarsely, reaching out to pull her into his arms. "God, yes." A tear ran down his face and he buried his face in her chest. She stroked his back, looking over his shoulder at the bruised, exhausted boy huddled on the other end of the couch.

"Neal?"

The slave gave her a shaky smile, and while it was a ghost of his usual million watt grin, at least it was something. "I'm up for it if you are, Ms. El."

"Then it's settled. Starting tomorrow, it's a slavemaster reboot."


	26. Make It Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter meets Goanup, El learns about Neal's teenage years, and Peter puts the hat stealer in his place.

The early morning sun lit up the Bureau lobby, dancing across the tile, but the power of a thousand suns couldn't have brightened Peter's day. There was a tornado brewing inside of him, and it wasn't going away.

Fuck the bright skies. This office was about to storm.

He tapped his foot impatiently as he waited at the elevator block, checking his watch. Nine forty-five. Neal would be up by now for certain. Hopefully El would be able to keep him in check for a little while longer. It had taken longer at the bio lab than he had expected, but Peter supposed that he couldn't complain, considering they didn't usually open until ten, and Dr. Garret had shown up at six o'clock sharp as a personal favor to him.

The elevator binged, doors sliding open, and Peter stepped in. He was immediately met by the elevator operator, a young man with a smile almost as bright as the sun outside and shaggy red curls peeking out from his fancy little cap. He was dressed in a double breasted polyester suit with bright silver buttons, but instead of a button down with a tie he wore a crisp grey shirt with a mandarin collar that pretty much covered his neck. All of his neck.

Peter was used to seeing this kid—he rode the elevator every single day—but today it was like he seeing him with brand new eyes. The boy wasn't ugly, but he wasn't exactly handsome, either, with heavy freckling and ears a little too big for his head—a head that was tipped slightly forward, hazel eyes locked on the agent's chest rather than his face. His hands were tucked neatly behind his back.

"Good morning, Agent Burke," he said, smile widening. He met Peter's eyes for an instant before dropping them back down to his chest. He reached out to hit a button as the elevator doors swung shut, but Peter caught his arm. The boy stiffened. "May I help you, Agent Burke?" The words were cheerful, but his tense shoulders betrayed his nervousness.

"What's your name?"

The boy blinked and raised his eyes again, obviously not expecting the question. And why would he? Peter had ridden in this elevator with him hundreds of times and never asked his name before. He was, after all, just the elevator operator. All he did was push a button, and up they went.

"I'm sorry, sir?" the boy said as he stared at Peter's big hand on his arm, obviously distracted by the tight grip. Peter released him, feeling guilty for putting that nervous look on his face.

"Your name," Peter said. "What is it?"

"Oh." The kid had a look in his eye like he thought Peter was a little crazy, but he answered, "Um, well, they call me Goanup."

Peter blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Goanup," the boy repeated, voice sheepish. "I used to be called Tommy, back when I sorted mail at the IRS, but when I started working here all anybody ever said to me was 'Hey, going up!' So the other slaves started calling me Goanup."

So his suspicions were confirmed—the kid really *was* a slave. Right here, in the goddamn FBI building. Pushing the button that sent agents up to Vice Collar. How many more slaves did they have running around, serving his needs without his knowledge? Ten? Twenty? A hundred?

Peter wasn't sure he liked seeing the world with these new eyes.

"They really call you Goanup? God, that sounds like a bad joke." Peter shook his head, embarrassed for the boy, but the kid just laughed.

"Oh, they don't mean nothing by it, Agent Burke, sir. It could have been worse—they could call me 'Going Down.'"

Peter chuckled along with him. "Yeah, I guess that would be worse."

"So are you ready to go up, sir?" Goanup—oh God, Peter couldn't even think of him as that—*Tommy* asked as he reached toward the buttons again, but Peter held up a hand, making him pause.

"Actually, Tommy, I am going up. But it's going to be a little further than usual today."

o o o

El smiled as she walked into the kitchen, the smell of sizzling bacon and freshly squeezed oranges luring her to the table. Neal was at the counter, busy wielding a spatula like a pro. For someone who’d claimed to have little experience in the kitchen beyond the decorating of cakes, he sure knew how to make a woman’s stomach rumble. It seemed a slave’s idea of ‘experienced’ wasn’t quite the same as a free man’s.

"Good morning, Neal," she said as she tightened the belt on her terrycloth robe and settled into one of the chairs, making a point *not* to try and lend him a hand. He obviously wanted to serve breakfast, and she had no reason to stop him.

"Good morning, Mistress El." He glanced over his shoulder to give her a smile, and she returned it with one of her own.

"Would you like come coffee, Mistress El?" he asked, not waiting for an answer before he set a steaming yellow mug in front of her.

She took a careful sip, finding it exactly to her liking. How in the world did Neal know how she took her coffee? The boy was like magic.

Neal turned back to the counter, dumping out a tub of strawberries onto the cutting board. She sipped her coffee in silence, watching him as he worked, chopping away.

For some reason, Neal had chosen to wear a pair of black silk boxers and nothing else, putting his bruises in full view. What had originally been a solid smear of red and purple and blue had faded to just a few black and green patches on his pale skin. Without the bruising to distract, El could see fine white lines tracing random patterns on his back and legs, almost but not quite invisible. She wasn't exactly an expert at measuring scars, but her instincts said they were old, that they'd had many years to fade to the edge of nothingness.

"When did you get the scars on your back?" El asked, then immediately wished she hadn't. Talk about tactless, bringing up what had obviously been very painfully earned lash marks.

Neal, however, didn't seem bothered, glancing back at her for a moment before continuing with his chopping. "Oh, those are from forever ago. When I was a kid. They were supposed to be on Hezekial."

"Hezekial?" El said, shaking her head at the name. First 'Titillation,' then 'Hezekial'? Was there a book out there called 'Weird Ass Slave Names for Dummies?'

"Yeah," Neal said, picking up the chopping board and sweeping the strawberries into a bowl. "He was this kid I trained with. Dumb as a brick, but pretty as hell. Your usual mid tier fuckling. At the time we looked really alike. In fact, they advertised us as a matching set. Blue eyes, dark hair, pretty face. Same height, same build. Totally different IQ. Anyway, he set off the sprinklers at a strip club."

He turned around just as El's eyebrows shot up.

"He did what?"

Neal chuckled at the look on her face, leaning back against counter and crossing his arms over his chest. "We were there 'cause our trainer was trying to teach us to strip, and it wasn't going too well. Zeke didn't know right from left, and I looked more like I was treating a rash than doing a sexy dance. So our trainer took us to this strip club so we could see how it was done or whatever. 

“Anyway, our trainer got distracted by all the boobs and wandered off, leaving our tweenish butts sitting at a table." He shook his head, looking amused. "Then this old geezer came over and told Zeke to stand up and make it rain."

El's eyes widened slightly. "Oh my God, he didn't…"

"He did," Neal said dryly. "Like I said, we were matched in all things but IQ. Zeke gave the dinosaur a big smile, walked right across the room, and pulled the fire alarm." He gave a small shrug. "Hey, he *did* make it rain."

"That's horrible," El said, though she couldn't help but laugh. "I can't believe he thought the guy really wanted him to make it rain."

"*I* can't believe that he knew pulling the fire alarm would make the sprinklers come on," Neal said, shaking his head. "He didn't even know how to screw in a lightbulb. So our trainer is right in the middle of a lap dance when this happens, and boy is he pissed. He drags us out of there by our hair, screaming the whole time about how that's twenty bucks of his life he'll never get back."

"Oh man," El said, laughing again. "That is too funny."

"Yeah," Neal said, smile fading a little. "It was pretty funny, until the old geezer came storming up. He started yelling like a maniac at my trainer, all this shit about how if your bitches don't know the difference between making it rain dollar bills and bringing the fire chief to a strip club, then you shouldn't be taking them out in public. Whoa, was our trainer mad when he figured out what had happened. Seriously, I had never seen him that angry in my life."

"And he thought it was you who set off the alarm," El said, all humor disappearing as she retraced those fine white lines in her mind. "The pervert at the club couldn't tell you apart."

Neal shook his head. "No, my trainer knew it was Zeke. You're right that the pervert couldn't tell us apart, but my trainer knew that only Zeke would be that stupid. So my trainer started screaming at him about how he hoped Zeke had enjoyed his night out because it was the last he'd ever see, along with a bunch of other crazy shit about chopping off his nuts and beating in his face before he put him out of his misery. I knew there would be a needle in Zeke's neck the second we got home."

"Oh my God, he killed him?" El said, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach. "For one little misunderstanding?"

"No, no," Neal said, waving the words away. "I wouldn't have let that happen. Zeke was too sweet. It wasn't his fault he was a total idiot. I told our trainer I did it. I said that I was tired of the old guy sticking his hand down my pants so when he said 'make it rain,' I decided to give him exactly what he asked for."

"And your trainer believed you?" El asked.

"Not at first," Neal said, "but then I asked him where the hell Hezekial would have learned that pulling a fire alarm would set off sprinklers, and my trainer couldn't argue with that. Zeke really was stupid."

"So if you were afraid your trainer was going to kill the other boy, weren't you afraid he'd kill you?"

"Zeke was pretty," Neal said, turning back to the counter and scooping the freshly chopped fruit onto a plate. He then spun around, balancing it on his fingertips dramatically before setting it down in front of her.

El's eyebrows shot up at the elegant arrangement of bacon, eggs, and fruit salad. It wasn't easy to make greasy, runny breakfast foods look beautiful, but somehow Neal had managed.

"Pretty was all that Zeke was, though," he continued. "Pretty fucklings are a dime a dozen. Hardly worth the food you feed them. But me…" Neal shrugged. "I knew he wasn't going to put me down, or even chop off my 'freshly dropped balls,' as he so eloquently put it. I had too many skills. So he just whipped me. Hard. With the kind of whip that leaves marks you'll never be able to heal. But it was better than a dead Zeke."

Neal returned to the counter, pouring a glass of orange juice and setting it on the table next to her plate, looking at her expectantly.

It was sickening, the things they'd done to Neal. Though she wasn't quite sure what was worse: The awful events themselves or the way that Neal told the stories like he was reliving his frat boy days. If he could laugh about things like this, then how bad was the stuff he cried about?

El didn't really feel much like eating anymore, but she didn't want all the slave's work to be for nothing. She took a deep breath and picked up a piece of bacon, forcing herself to chew and swallow it down, then gave Neal a smile. "It's good."

"Thank you, Mistress El." Neal licked his lips, staring at the table for a moment, then he pulled out the chair across from her, sitting down stiffly in the seat, his arms hovering uncomfortably above the table.

"Are you going to eat?" she asked, glancing over at the second plate, still sitting on the counter.

"I'll eat when you're finished, Mistress El," he said, and El nodded her head in understanding. This was an olive branch, Neal meeting her half way. He would sit with her at the table, as uncomfortable as it made him, and she would allow him to wait until after she was finished to eat. Fair enough.

They sat there in silence for several minutes, Neal picking idly at his cuticles while El practically gorged herself on the most delicious fruit salad she'd ever tasted, then finally he spoke up in a casual voice.

"May I ask where Master is? I woke up at six, and he was already gone." Neal's eyes were still locked on his fingernails, but El had a feeling that the slave had been dying to ask this question for awhile now.

She smiled at him, hoping it came off as genuine. She had rehearsed this little speech at least five times in the mirror this morning, but she wasn't sure it was conman worthy. "He got an early call about some paperwork he forgot to sign on a case," she said, feeding him the story Peter had come up with to explain his absence. "It's going to court this morning so they needed his John Hancock ASAP. None of us got much sleep last night so he decided not to wake you." She glanced down at her watch, frowning. "I'm surprised he's not back yet. Oh, who am I kidding? He's such a workaholic. He probably won't be home before dinner."

"Oh," Neal said, brow furrowing. "So does that mean that he doesn't want me at work?" The words were casual, but the look on his face was not. Obviously the idea of being left behind terrified the shit out of him.

"No, no, of course not," El soothed. "He just didn't want to wake you up for no reason. After breakfast I'll put you in a cab to the office."

It was quite an effort not to add, "How does that sound?" onto the end of the sentence, but El had sworn to herself that she'd try and treat Neal more like Jack treated Ian, as disrespectful as it felt to her. She held her breath, half expecting Neal to say something sassy or try to pry more out of her regarding what Peter was doing at the Bureau before the crack of dawn, but he just nodded and returned his attention to his nails.

"Yes, Mistress El."

Okay then.

They fell into silence again, Neal picking dirt out of his fingernails as El worked on her meal, then Satchmo trotted in, doing a little jig at her feet. El rewarded him for his fine efforts with a piece of bacon, and Neal chuckled.

"What?" she said, raising an eyebrow.

He shook his head, grinning, and she pretended to scowl. "Oh, come on. Don't start going all strong and silent on me now. What's so funny?"

"Can't say," Neal replied, curls falling into his eyes. "It's totally heretical."

El made a rude sound. "By that I'm guessing you mean it would piss Peter off? Well, Peter's not here, boyo, so spill."

Neal's grin widened, blue eyes flickering in Satch's direction. "I was just thinking that you really know how to make your men dance. Does Peter realize that you rule this roost with a porcelain fist?"

"Oh please, you know he's completely clueless," she said, waving the words away. "He totally believes he's the man of the house, but the fact is that women have always ruled. Men are just living in a dream world. It's the same dream world that convinces them their penises are even remotely attractive."

Neal burst into laughter, the first truly untempered laugh she'd ever heard from him. His whole face shined, and the unhealed bruises faded to the background, allowing her a glimpse of just how handsome he would be when well fed and free of those marks.

"Oh yeah," he said, nodding. "I call it 'My Beautiful Penis Syndrome.'" He lowered his voice, faking a redneck accent. "You know, you're almost as pretty as what I'm packing in my pants."

El laughed then squared her jaw like a man and grunted. "It's gorgeous ain't it?" she said in a low voice, gesturing vaguely toward her crotch. "Don't you just wanna *touch* it?"

"Standing tall and proud," Neal countered in a deep, gravelly tone. "Have you ever seen anything like it? I named it Joe.”

"Forget Paris at sunset, lady—you should see what I got in my pants."

"Looking for Prince Charming? I got him right here. All you have to do is dance with his royal balls."

"Oh, God," El said, bursting into laughter. "Please tell me you made that last one up."

"I wish," Neal said, shaking his head. "And trust me, it looked nothing like Prince Charming. In fact it had a lot more in common with Cinderella. And by that I mean all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't find it if they tried."

"You are horrible," El said. "I love it."

"You're pretty horrible, too," he replied with a grin. "I have to say, I've never met a woman quite like you."

"You mean that your old Mistress didn't make dick jokes with you?" El said, feigning shock.

Neal laughed again. "No, Mistress was not the dick joking kind. Or the joking kind in general. Mostly jokes just went over her head."

"I seriously doubt a penis joke could go over anybody's head," El said.

Neal shook his head ruefully. "You would be surprised." The good humor faded slowly off his face, and El really wished she hadn't brought Kate up. "I haven't even tried to look for her, you know." The words were heavy with guilt.

"Oh Neal… She was the one who left you," El said, reaching across the table and offering him her hand. "I mean, she sold your contract."

Neal stared at her hand for a moment, then took it gingerly in his own, squeezing lightly. His hands were surprisingly soft. "It wasn't ever really about the contract."

El frowned. "What do you mean?"

Neal sighed. "I called her my mistress, and it was fun to pretend. But the truth is, if Master Vin—“ He cut off, taking a deep breath. "I mean, if my old master had showed up on the doorstep and ordered me to leave her, I would have. She was the love of my life, but even with the contract, she wasn't my mistress. Not for real. I would have left her." The pain in his voice was ten times what it had been when he talked about the whip marks on his back, and El gave his hand a comforting squeeze.

"I loved her so much. I still love her. I would do anything for her. Anything except defy my real master, that is." He made a disgusted sound. "I escaped prison slavery to be with her, yet here I am in this house, with no chains to hold me down, and I haven't even attempted to find her. I want to be with her… I want her to be Mistress again. But I want to have a master more." He shook his head. "Which makes zero sense, right?"

"It makes perfect sense, Neal," El said softly. "You called her Mistress, but she wasn't *really* your mistress. You were in charge, not her. I think you know that deep down. You and Kate… You were lovers. That's why you would have left her for your old master, and that's why you can't bring yourself to look for her behind Peter's back. Because you were Kate's lover for a few years, but you've been a slave your whole life. Your heart is dedicated to Kate, but that isn't enough to overcome two decades of brainwashing. So when it comes down to the wire, you can't help but choose master over lover."

"That's ridiculous," Neal murmured, not meeting her eyes. "I'm not even a man. How can I be someone's lover?”

"Oh Neal," El said, shaking her head, "you are very much a man, whether the state acknowledges it or not. There is not a woman on this planet who looks at you and thinks 'what a pretty little boy.' A man is still a man, even if you call him a boy. You may be a slave, but you are also charming, witty, romantic, and a whole other slew of words that make women swoon. If it weren't for that piece of metal around your neck, you would be straight out of a romance novel."

Neal opened his mouth like he wanted to protest then shut it again, looking slightly peeved.

"You can't deny it, can you?" El said. "You know that you're every woman's fantasy. It's time to face facts. Kate was your lover, not your mistress. So you are not betraying her by being here."

Neal's adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Maybe not," he said, voice hoarse. "But she was just so special, you know? So very, very special."

El bit her lip. From what little Peter had told her, Kate really wasn't that special at all. What was it about this elusive 'Mistress' of his that made Neal take such wild chances and do such crazy things? "Look, I mean no offense when I say this, but beyond being beautiful, it doesn't seem like Kate was very special at all." The words 'especially compared to you' hung unspoken in the air. "What is it about her that you love so much?"

Neal looked away, staring off at nothing. When he finally spoke, El could barely hear him. "I guess… I guess it's because she was my first."

His first? Neal was a fuckling. Kate had to have been far from his first. Maybe he meant his first woman? No, that didn't make any sense. It wasn't as if men had a corner on the sex slave market. Plenty of women owned pleasure slaves. Neal would have been trained to serve women.

"What do you mean, your first?"

Neal turned back toward El, the look in his blue eyes making her shiver. "Being with her… It was the first time where I wasn't afraid."

o o o

Peter stared through a mass of ugly plastic leaves, eyes locked on his target. The big, tacky fern stuck in a corner by the copy machine wasn't exactly a surveillance van, but it was better than nothing. At least he had a good view of his mark. The bastard was seated in a small cubicle right in the heart of White Collar's bullpen, completely unaware of his impending doom as he idly pushed papers and scratched his butt.

It wasn't often that the law abiding Peter Burke dreamed of complete and total anarchy, but today he had a thirst for blood. If only it were the zombie apocalypse, Peter could blow that fucker's head off right here and now, then hang around to watch as animated corpses feasted on his brain. Not that it would be much of a meal.

Peter checked his briefcase one more time, making sure everything was ready to go. The office was packed, exactly how he wanted it. It was five past ten and a congregation of probies were worshiping the coffee machine as junior agents studied the unholy works of corporate fat cats and the head of the White Collar division fiddled his thumbs high up in the sky.

Let the humiliation commence.

Peter popped out from behind the fern, making one of the agents screech and spill coffee all over her ugly brown suit. No wonder the White Collar division never closed any cases. If a six foot two man built like a linebacker could hide behind a potted plant in the middle of the office for twenty minutes without a single agent noticing, God knew what a guy like Vincent Adler could do.

"Stephen Curtis Johnson?" Peter boomed as he reached his target's little cubicle, taking pleasure in the way the bastard jumped in his seat.

Brainless turned, his eyes widening for an instant, then his face twisted into a smirk. "Agent Peter Burke," he said in a nasally voice, the little rat. "A pleasure to see you. How are things going downstairs in Vice Collar these days? Catch the Dutchman yet?"

Peter gritted his teeth, willing himself to keep his hands at his sides, far from the bastard's neck. Death was too gentle a punishment for this shithead. Time to wipe that smirk off of Brainless' face.

"Johnson, you're going to have to come with me."

Brainless stood, puffing up his chest, and Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes. What a little peacock.

"Didn't you get the memo, Burke? I've been transferred to White Collar. HR agreed that you had absolutely no grounds to fire me. In fact, my lawyer thinks that I might very well have a case against you." He chuckled. "Or maybe that's why you're here? To beg me for mercy? Because there's no way I'm going back to Vice Collar." He tilted his head toward the big, shiny offices over the bullpen, where the division head was now watching them with a suspicious look on his face. "I got me a new boss."

Peter let out a hearty laugh, and Brainless' brow furrowed up. Apparently this confrontation was not going precisely as he'd planned.

"I'm not here as your boss, Johnson. I'm here as Special Agent Peter Burke of the Vice Collar division." He reached into his jacket and pulled out his badge, flashing it at Brainless with a smirk. "And you're under arrest for first degree trespassing and vandalism of property."

Brainless stared at him blankly, what little mind he had obviously working double time to comprehend the words. "What the fuck are you talking about? I didn't vandalize shit."

"Oh?" Peter said, feigning surprise. "So you *didn't* penetrate slave Neal Caffrey in the cafeteria slave depository approximately forty-eight hours ago?"

"What?! No, no, of course I didn't!" Brainless said, face going bright red as every agent in the office turned their attention on the unfolding drama.

Peter set his briefcase on the desk, popping it open to reveal a ziploc freezer bag containing Neal's crumpled hat. He pulled it out, picking up the lab papers beneath. "Well, I guess you're in luck then, Johnson. If that's true then there's no way that the lab will be able to match your DNA back to this sample, seeing how you're so virginal and all."

Brainless' face went from tomato red to a sickly shade of yellow in an instant, eyes locked on the hat. "Where did you get that?"

"The mall," Peter replied sarcastically. "Where do you think I got it? Off of my slave's head."

"Burke, Johnson… Mind if I ask what the hell is going on?"

Peter turned, flashing a grin at the White Collar department head. "Oh nothing much. Just arresting your agent here."

"You can't arrest me for shit," Johnson protested, sweat trickling down his face. "Okay, yeah, I banged the slave. But he asked for it! Begged me for it! It wasn't my fault. It was all him. You knew he was a slut when you got him."

Oh goody, exactly the words he'd been looking for.

"So you confess that you penetrated slave Neal Caffrey with full knowledge that he was in my possession at the time?"

"What?" Brainless' eyes were wild. "No! I mean, yes! I mean… Only because he wanted it!"

Peter snorted. "For someone who was in Vice Collar just a few days ago, you don't know much about slave law, do you? It doesn't matter if Neal paid you fifty bucks to stick your dick in him. He's my property, and property can't make decisions. The owner does. And I have several witnesses willing to testify to the fact that I clearly stated you were to stay the hell away from my slave. You violated my property rights, trespassing on my slave and vandalizing its body." He paused dramatically. "Oh yeah, and then there's the attempted murder."

"What?" Brainless choked out, stumbling back like he'd been struck. "What the hell are you talking about? Okay, yeah, I fucked the slave, but I didn't try to kill anybody!"

Peter clucked, shaking his head. "See the thing is, Johnson, when you decided to smear your man juice all over my slave's face, you opened up the possibility of transferring a sexually transmitted disease. And what a coincidence, the slave you chose to infect just *happens* to be property of the boss who fired you the day before. Seems pretty suspicious, you trying to trade fluids with the very man who put you in the unemployment line."

"That's never going to hold up in court," Brainless protested, though he didn't sound all that sure. How the hell had this one ever made it through the Academy? "I don't even have any STDs!"

Peter grabbed the other man by the arms, yanking him forward until they were nose to nose. "You would be *amazed* at how convincing I am on the stand, Johnson," he practically growled. "I have put away hundreds of scumballs like you on half the evidence. You know it, I know it, everybody in this office knows it. You're going down, Johnson, one way or another. So if I were you, I'd think long and hard about taking a plea bargain. Fifteen to twenty is a hell of a lot better than forty to life. Now assume the position."

The words weren't completely a lie. Peter *had* put away hundreds of scumballs like him with half the evidence—but only because they *always* took the plea bargains.

Brainless let out a choked sob, and Peter smirked.

Let the bastard's tears fall like rain.


	27. You Can't Forge Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Bobs and Lula help out Neal, El meets Haversham, and Neal teaches Vice Collar a thing or two about the reality of slavery.

Neal stepped through the door of the Bureau feeling a little sick to his stomach. The day had started off so very well, with Ms. El allowing him to make and serve her breakfast like a real slave. Their light hearted banter had been very enjoyable, and Neal had surprised himself by telling her the sprinkler story. He'd never told anyone that story before, but then he wasn't sure anyone had ever asked him where his scars came from before, either.

Mistress Kate certainly hadn't.

Neal's stomach dropped at the thought. He still couldn't believe he'd actually shared his feelings about Mistress Kate with Ms. El, practically admitting flat out to the fact that he had never considered her a real mistress. And instead of being upset, Ms. El had actually encouraged it. Neal could still feel her soft fingers playing with his hand. Mistress Kate had been the first person he'd ever served without fear, but maybe she didn't have to be the last.

Neal *had* been a little weirded out when he discovered that Peter had ditched him for the office, but Ms. El hadn't seemed worried, and her confidence gave him confidence. So all was well… Or it had been, up until it was time to get dressed. That was when the realization had hit.

Neal's hat was gone.

Sure, he had a dozen other fedoras to choose from, but that special one was gone, the one he *had* to wear, and he didn't have another one exactly like it.

The discovery had set off a mad search through the closet, and after rifling through literally every item of clothing—as if a hat could hide inside a pocket square—Neal had collapsed onto the ground and drawn his knees up to his chest, fists clenching. Ms. El or Peter must have thrown the filthy thing away, the fuckers. Neal had *told* them what would happen if he didn't wear it! How dare they sneak into his room while he slept and take it? It was *his* hat, not theirs—

Whoa. Neal cut that line of thought off abruptly. What the hell was wrong with him? That hat wasn't his, this room wasn't his, even *he* wasn't his. He was only a thing, with no right to think that way about his owners. It wasn't as if he could blame Peter for not wanting his property to be seen in public with a musky, crumpled hat. But still, to throw it away with no thought of the consequences? Talk about harsh.

But then there wouldn't really be any consequences, would there? Not for Peter, anyway. Whatever pretty explanations Peter had, this was still the man who had thrown him into prison slavery without a second thought and stuffed him in that punishment cage for something he'd only supposed that Neal had done. Surely that showed that his master had no reason to care if he suffered.

The fact that this felt like a betrayal was a testament Neal's sizable ego, and he really needed to work on shrinking it before he choked to death on his own pride. You would have thought that four straight years of absolute hell would have sliced his hubris down to nothing, but somehow being on the outside of that prison was reverting him back into the boy he'd been before at lightning speed. The boy that claimed to worship his mistress then ignored her orders and went out to do whatever the hell he wanted, as if he was his own slave. No, as if he was his own *man.*

And that was exactly why slaves shouldn't be allowed to choose their owners. All his training down the drain, thank you very much, liberal loonie Mozzie and helpless damsel Kate.

Neal forced himself to pull it together, shoving aside the boy slave and putting on his conman face. If Peter wouldn't allow Neal to do what the hat stealer demanded, he would just have to trick the hat stealer into believing otherwise. None of his other hats were an exact match for the black-on-black fedora the hat stealer had smeared his cum all over, but there was a black one with a dark grey band that resembled it. Neal crumpled it up, leaving it just disheveled enough to fool the eye. As long as he didn't get too close to the hat stealer, the man wouldn't be able to tell the difference. And if Peter didn't like Neal wearing a strangely creased and rumpled hat, well, he could shove it where the sun didn't shine.

Okay, again with the inappropriate thoughts.

Neal Caffrey the conman had been sure he could pull it off that morning, but now that Neal was in the building the slave boy in him was creeping back out, making him want to fade away into the walls. What if the hat stealer came at him from behind? Or cornered Neal like he had the first time? Not that Neal was planning to go back into that depository anytime soon, even if it was nice to chat with fellow slaves after spending all day dealing with free men who were apparently clueless in regards to all things slavery despite being in the slave department. Truthfully, Neal would rather enter a prison fuck room than that depository. At least there he'd know what was coming.

There was nothing Neal hated more than feeling like he wasn't in control. Admittedly it wasn't the best trait for someone born to his station, but it was what made Neal such a damn good con-slave. That innate need to manipulate his own destiny had given birth to his uncanny ability to read a master like a book. Once he had a read on the mark, he was free to give them exactly what they wanted—and get what he wanted in return. But then most masters weren't Peter Burke. The man was simply unreadable, even for Neal. Or, maybe, especially for Neal.

Neal did his best to slip across the lobby as invisibly as possible, his eyes locked on the elevators. Except, now that he thought about it, elevators weren't much better than slave depositories, were they? He wouldn't have any place to run if the hat stealer followed him in, other than the emergency exit, and somehow Neal didn't think his master would appreciate it if he climbed into the elevator shaft to get away from one little pervert.

Better to go with the stairs.

Neal changed direction, veering toward the industrial stairwell, and suddenly found himself flanked by the two Bobs.

"Hey," Neal said as casually as he could, heart pounding in his chest as he glanced back and forth between them. "What's up?" More like, what did they want? Were they working for the hat stealer now?

"We wanted to warn you," the boy Neal knew as Bob One said in a low voice. "The free man who used you in the caf the other day? He was just arrested."

Neal came to a sudden halt. "What do you mean, he was arrested?"

"I saw it for myself," Bob Two said, stroking his rough chin. "I was cleaning the windows up in the White Collar offices. Saw your big master hiding behind a plant half his size. It was kind of strange, but I didn't think much of it. After all, free men do strange stuff sometimes. Who am I to question them? And nobody but me even seemed to notice he was there."

"Them free men are too used to having slaves about," Bob One said, shaking his head. "They can't see when somebody who ain't supposed to be there is right under their nose 'cause they're so used to us lurking in the shadows."

A weakness that Neal had exploited more than once back in the day.

"Wait a second, are you saying my *master* was the one who arrested him?"

"That's right," Bob Two said with a nod. "Right there in front of everybody. Accused him of trespassing and vandalism and—get this—attempted murder."

Neal stared at the other slaves in disbelief, mind whirring. Attempted murder? When the hell had the hat stealer tried to off someone? "I don't understand," Neal said. "Who did he try and kill?"

"Your master, apparently," Bob Two replied. "Went and claimed that wiping cum all over your face was Agent Johnson's way of trying to give you the clap so you could go infect your master, or something nuts like that."

Neal shook his head, feeling queasy. "There's no way that will ever hold up in court."

"It don't have to," Bob One piped up. "Word in the halls is that he's gonna take a plea bargain."

"Your master was pretty persuasive," Bob Two said, shuddering a little. "I feel for you, kid, having to spend your nights with that. Even if you is a fuckling."

Neal opened his mouth to defend Peter, then shut it again. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing, belonging to a man that everyone assumed to be a possessive psychopath.

"I've had worse," he said softly, and the two Bobs shared a knowing look. Unlike Peter, they understood exactly what slaves like Neal did.

"I'm sure you have, boy," Bob One said, giving him a quick hug, and Neal had to swallow down the lump in his throat. There were plenty of slaves out there who wouldn't even be seen with a fuckling, much less treat him like a friend.

"Anyway," Bob Two said, "we wanted to give you a head's up. Didn't want you to walk in blind." He paused, looking Neal up and down. "I can see you're used to playing the punching bag, and your master was definitely pissed. You could tell what he really wanted to do was rip Agent Johnson's balls off, but obviously he didn't get the chance."

"And we all know who ends up taking brunt of it when a master don't get to let his rage out." Bob One reached into the pocket of his coveralls, pulling out a handful of yellow pills. "You want to armor up?"

"Where did you get those?" Neal asked, eyes locked on the capsules. Talk about bringing back the bad memories. "Why would you need those? You're maintenance slaves."

"We don't," Bob One replied. "They're a gift from Lula. She heard about what happened and snuck out of the depository to give 'em to me. Nobody can say your kind ain't loyal."

Neal took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Lula had disobeyed her master's orders for him? If anyone found out, she'd be the one needing some armor, not him. He didn't deserve this. He couldn't let her risk her own safety like this again. Dammit, he was going have to go back to that fucking closet and talk to her.

"I appreciate it," Neal said, taking the pills from Bob One. There was no way that Peter would take his rage out on Neal—his master had practically passed a kidney stone when Jack spanked Toby for Tyler’s bad behavior—but he couldn't exactly refuse them. Not when Lula had risked so much to give them to him.

"Good luck, boy," Bob Two said as Neal slipped the pills into his pants pocket, then the two Bobs took off toward the stairwell. Neal, however, turned on his heel and headed for the elevators.

The hat stealer wasn't going to corner him today.

o o o

"Good morning, Elizabeth," the new assistant called out as El walked into the showroom of Burke Events, the little bell above the door marking her arrival.

"Hi Kimberly," she replied, flashing the girl her best smile as she tried pretend that she wasn't about to drop dead from exhaustion. The last few days had been a real workout, mentally and physically, but after her breakfast with Neal this morning she had hope that this day would be a little more peaceful.

"Your slave trainer got here a bit early," Kimberly called out as El headed toward her office. "I went ahead and let him in."

Her *slave* trainer? So much for peaceful.

"What do you mean, you let in my slave trainer?" El said, turning around to face her assistant. A little wrinkle appeared between Kimberly's eyes.

"Oh my God, did you want me to make him wait out here? I'm so sorry, Elizabeth." She pushed aside the invitations she'd been sorting, holding up a file. "I thought since he had the papers and everything—"

"Let me see those," El said, marching over and snatching the folder from her employee's hands. She flipped it open, eyes narrowing when she saw a training contract for one Mr. Dante Haversham, complete with her own signature. Except she hadn't signed any training contract, so that wasn't really her signature, was it?

She glanced toward the office with narrowed eyes, debating whether or not she should call in the cavalry. It was pretty strange, someone sneaking into her office for God knows what reason, but the fact that this fake contract looked so very, very real brought one thing to mind.

James Bondage.

El tucked the folder under her arm and mimed a smack to the forehead. "Oh, I totally forgot about him! Thank you for letting him in, Kim."

"No problem," the girl said, looking relieved.

"I'll be back in a few, okay?" El headed for the office once more, making a slight detour at the cake samples where she picked up a knife and slipped it into the pocket of her trench coat.

Always be prepared. The motto of an FBI wife.

El bit her lip as she stood outside the door, debating whether or not she should call her husband. Something strange was going down here, and she was pretty sure that it had something to do with Neal. She really should call the Bureau. On the other hand, whoever this was had sought her out specifically, not Peter, and that had to mean something.

Oh screw it. She was an independent woman. She could take care of herself.

El pushed the door open, eyebrows shooting up. A little man was sitting at her desk, hands clasped solemnly in front of him, soulful eyes staring out from behind thick glasses.

This was 'Mr. Dante Haversham, slave trainer?' He sure didn't look like a slave trainer, but then El supposed there weren't actually any hard and fast rules for what a slave trainer could look like. He also didn't look like the type to try and attack a woman in the bright of morning, but who knew?

El moved into the office, the knife a comforting weight in her pocket.

"Who the hell are you, and what are you doing at my desk?"

"Good morning to you too, Mrs. Suit."

Mrs. Suit? Was this guy kidding her? "My name is Elizabeth Burke."

The little man huffed. "Same thing."

"I'm guessing you already know that my husband is an agent at the FBI, and that if you harm a single hair on my head he'll swoop in with the fury of a hundred hurricanes and wipe you away for good."

"No need to convince me of the soul sucking power of our governmental agencies," the man retorted, sniffing disdainfully. "Relax, I'm not here to hurt you."

"Then why are you here?" El asked, holding up the file. "And why did you forge my signature?"

"I needed to talk to you alone," he said. "This seemed like a convenient way to do so."

"Creating a fake training contract and forging my signature is convenient?" El said. "How about picking up a phone and setting an appointment?"

"Oh, I don't do appointments," the man replied with a shake of the head. "I live my life off the books."

"And I don't take walk ins," El shot back. "So how about you get out of my office before I call my husband and give him this very excellent forgery you've managed to cook up? Then you can live your life behind bars."

"I'm here about Neal," he said, as if she hadn't spoken.

"Yeah, I sort of guessed that," she replied, tossing the file onto her desk. "The whole forgery thing gave it away. But I don't see how *my* slave is any of *your* business."

"Your slave is my business, because my business is your slave." The little man paused and cocked his head to the side, waving a finger in the air. "Wait a minute. That didn't come out right. Let me try that again. Your slave is my business because your slave was my slave... You know what? Let's skip the witty repertoire and get right down to business." He pointed at himself. "I am the only friend," his finger shifted toward El, "that your slave has."

This was Neal's only friend? Poor Neal.

"Neal didn't mention having any friends."

The man snorted. "I bet he also didn't mention that he brushes his teeth for exactly two minutes and fifteen seconds every morning, but that doesn't mean he doesn't do it."

"Did you just compare yourself to a tooth brush?" El asked, staring down the the man in disbelief.

"Look, you seem like a pretty nice lady—for a slave to The Man, anyway. So I was thinking that you and I could have a little chat."

A chat? About what? "Will you please just tell me who you are and what you are doing here?"

"The name's Dante," the little man said. "Dante Haversham. I was one of Neal's many trainers, once upon a time." He held up a hand as El's eyes narrowed. "Not *that* kind of trainer. Everything he knows about being a conman, that's me. The stuff they taught him before… Honestly, I don't have the stomach for it. Irritable Bowel Syndrome, you know."

Right. Of course. "Okay, we've got who you are… Now what are you doing here?"

Haversham sighed. "I'm here to do a *very* bad thing."

El reached into her pocket, pulling out the knife, and the little man threw his hands up in the air, waving them around madly.

"Whoa, hold your horses, Lone Ranger! When I say a bad thing, what I mean is this." He bent down behind the desk, picking up a giant binder and dropping it onto the wood. "A present for you, Mrs. Suit. Notice I said for you. *Not* for your Uncle Sam loving man."

"What is it?" El said, letting her knife drop to her side as he slid it across the desk toward her.

"It's Neal's file. And I don't mean whatever lies SlaveMart has strung together and stuck in his registration. This is his *real* file. It's everything I could find on him from diapers to the day he was pronounced prison slave… With a few key alleged instances that may or may not have happened removed for purposes of protection."

El flipped the binder open, eyes widening at what she saw. It was a picture of Neal, but not the Neal she knew. He couldn't be more than eleven or twelve, looking adorably awkward with arms and legs too long for his body and huge blue eyes that seemed to take up half of his face.

"Everything's in there. Ads, registrations, provinces, training records. Pictures and video clips. Everything you ever wanted to know about Neal, all in one place." He dropped his eyes. "Or, in some cases, everything you *didn't* want to know."

"Why are you giving me this?" El asked softly, and Haversham looked back up.

"Because he's my friend, and I care about him. And I think you care about him, too, or are on your way to caring about him, anyway. You deserve to know what you're getting into. Because it won't be an easy ride. Trust me, I know from experience."

"Why me instead of Peter?" El said. "He's the one Neal's latched onto. It's driving Peter crazy that he won't call him anything but 'Master.'"

Haversham licked his lips, hands dancing along the desk. "Because, Mrs. Suit, there are things in Neal's past that I'm not sure your dearest hubby could handle. If he saw that file, I'm not sure he'd ever be able to look at Neal the same way again."

The file suddenly looked a lot more ominous.

"Peter's not that kind of person," El snapped, feeling the need to defend her endlessly good man. "He would never blame the victim."

"You're working under the impression that Neal was a victim," Haversham countered, his voice overly casual. "It wasn't always that way. Sometimes, maybe most times, he wanted it." The man's forehead crumpled up. "That's the wrong word. It makes it sound like some kind of domestic abuse thing. Neal didn't just want it—he loved it. He really, really loved it."

El sucked in a sharp breath. "What do you mean by that?"

Haversham shrugged. "You know, he didn't *have* to sell himself, over and over again. There were other cons—better cons—he could have pulled. But he enjoyed feeling wanted. He enjoyed knowing that people treasured him the most, more than their paintings or their gems or their priceless toys. He conned people into wanting him, he played to their desires until they trusted that he would always be faithful to them, then he took what he wanted and left."

"You know he was raped the other day," El said in a cold voice. "Do you think he wanted that? Do you think he ‘loved it?’ Because I'm pretty damn sure he didn't."

"Of course he didn't," Haversham replied, nose in the air. "Letting that son of a bitch touch him was pretty much the opposite of what he's trying to achieve with your man. It didn't make the Suit prize him—it made him angry. And it made Neal, in his vernacular, a 'very bad slave.' Now not only does he have to convince the Suit he's worth something, he thinks he has to make up for his failures, too."

"Make it up how?" El questioned.

Haversham sighed. "The only way he knows. Submission."

"We've been working on that," El said. "It's hard for Peter and I, but we realize that Neal needs to feel like a useful part of the household. We've accepted that, in his mind, being useful means acting like our slave, and we've all agreed that we're going to work on it. It's just going to take some time."

"When I say submission, I don't mean watering the houseplants or walking the dog," Haversham said. "That's not enough for Neal. Anyone can water a plant or walk a dog. It doesn't make you irreplaceable and it most definitely doesn't make you precious. If you two think that's all he wants, you're fooling yourselves."

"Fine," El said, feeling exasperated. "You seem to know it all. Enlighten me."

Haversham removed his glasses, using his shirt to polish the thick lenses. "I'm going to be upfront with you, Mrs. Suit. You may find it unpleasant now, but I guarantee you will thank me for it later."

"Somehow I don't think anything I say will stop you," El said, "so be as up front as you like."

The little man settled his glasses back on his nose then looked her right in the eye. "Neal is planning to bed the Suit. He has been from the very start. In fact, he's probably going crazy right now inventing a thousand reasons as to why he hasn't managed to woo the man yet, beginning with 'I'm not good enough for him' and ending with 'he's playing sick games with me.' Note that 'master doesn't want to commit statutory rape' most likely hasn't even occurred to him. To Neal safety equals submission, and submission equals sex, so to feel safe, he has to have sex with him. That's all sex is to Neal. It's not love. It's not lust. It's not even pleasure. It's just submission."

"And you think that we would use that against him?" El said, offended that anyone would think so little of them. "That we would use his need to 'submit,' as you say, as an excuse to abuse him?"

Haversham gave a short laugh. "If I did then I wouldn't be here. You ‘using’ him? That's what he *wants*, and it's not my job to police Neal's cons. Even if I wanted to, he's never let me swoop in and save him from himself before, so I doubt he's going to start now. I'm here for your sake. To warn *you*."

He was here to warn her? This was getting really weird. "Warn me of what?"

Haversham leaned forward, resting all his weight on his forearms. "I've seen how the Suit looks at Neal." His voice was low and hushed. "Like I said, when it comes to Neal, sex is submission. Period, end of story, bind it, forge it, and sell it. If you or your husband thinks Neal will ever be able to have sex with you for any other reason, then you're wrong. A fact that many an owner has been happier not knowing. *That* is what's in this file. Lots and lots of submission, with not a single moment of true love or faithfulness—not real love as we know it, anyway. Not to me, not even to Kate. So tell me, Mrs. Suit. Do you think Mr. Suit can handle the truth? Do you think he can handle *that* Neal? Just how rosy are his colored glasses?"

El bit her lip, not knowing what to say. Haversham wasn't the only one who had seen how Peter looked at Neal.

"I don't always understand him, but I accept him," Haversham said. "And I'm here because I think that you can, too. But the Suit?" He shook his head. "I worry that, when he realizes it's only a con, his black and white view of the world may not allow him to forgive Neal."

"He doesn't need to be forgiven," El said harshly, remembering Neal's face as he talked so carelessly about the scars on his back and lamented about the only mistress he'd ever known who didn't force him to live in fear. Imagine, being thirty years old and having no idea what true love felt like. "I don't care what he did, and I don't care how much he did or didn't enjoy it. And if what you say is true about his plans… Well, none of that is really his fault. There's nothing to forgive. He didn't do anything wrong. He's a slave. He just does what they trained him to do. You call it a con—I call it a lifetime of abuse."

"I agree," Haversham said with a shrug, standing up and walking around the desk until they were face to face. Or his face to her collar bone, anyway. "That's why I'm here. That's why I gave you that." He nodded toward the binder. "I'm not Neal's babysitter, but I don't want him donning prison scrubs again because you people didn't know what you were getting into. I'm leaving it up to you how much you do or don't share with the Suit. You know him better than I do—there's only so much of a man you can see through a Russian spy scope. Just be careful. Even Neal can't forge love, and you shouldn't expect him to. After all, he's never seen the original. In the end, even his most excellent work won't be able to pass a thorough FBI inspection."

o o o

Neal's fingers tapped nervously on the table as he stared down at the paper in front of him. Peter was watching him like he expected miracles to happen, or at least party tricks. What was he, a criminal magician?

"So what do you think?"

Apparently it was time to wave his magic wand.

Neal licked his lips, flipping through the file for the dozenth time. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to glean from it that any agent in this room couldn't figure out, but he'd better say something before Peter started doubting his decision to take Neal home. He'd already disappointed his new master enough. It was time to pull the dollar out from behind the mark's ear—unfortunately there weren't really any dollars in this file.

"Hagen would need someplace big to produce these things, that's for sure." Might as well start with the basics. "Even your larger residences are out. It would take an assembly line of at least twenty people to keep a good production rate going. Double that if you want to keep it running twenty-four seven."

"So the place has to be big enough to house twenty people," Diana said with a shrug. "That isn't that big. He could be running out of a studio or a penthouse suite."

Neal shook his head. "Not people. Slaves. There is no way that Hagen is hiring Average Joe and sending him home at the end of his shift to dream about payoffs. Too many loose ends. He's definitely using slaves, probably the rejects that SlaveMart auctions off for next to nothing. The place needs to be big enough for at least forty slaves to eat, sleep, work, and crap. Probably more like fifty or sixty. Got to have backups in case any of them drop dead from exhaustion."

"Fifty or sixty?" Jones said, eyebrows almost to his hardly there hairline. "Wow, paying them all off is going to seriously cut into our boy's profits."

Neal laughed out loud at the joke, grin fading away when no one joined him. In fact, they were all staring at him.

"What?" he said, glancing around. "Do I have mustard on my tie or something?"

"Why are you laughing? Diana asked, straight to the point as always, and Neal chuckled again.

"Come on, it was funny. Pay them all off, right." He reached out to give Jones a light punch in the shoulder, slowly lowering his fist when the agent jerked away, glaring at him. It was hard to remember sometimes that he wasn't running a free man con. Especially since they let him fill his mug from the office coffee maker.

"Are you making fun of me, boy?" Jones said, sounding *really* offended, and Neal's eyes widened.

"What? No. I mean, no sir. I wasn't laughing at you. I was laughing at your joke. Not you. Most definitely not you. Sir, no, sir." He drew out the last 'sir,' holding up his hands in the international sign for 'I give up, please don't kick my ass.'

"I didn't make a joke," Jones replied, crossing his very large arms over his very large chest.

"You mean you actually think Hagen is going to pay off his slaves?" Neal said, unable to stop himself from using his 'you idiot' voice. Was being obscenely naive a requirement for working in the Vice Collar office or something?

"If he's not paying them off, then how is he going to make sure they keep their mouths shut after he sells them?" Peter asked, and Neal mentally added his master to his 'thick as a brick' list.

"Gee, I don't know, probably by making sure none of them open their mouths ever again?" Neal said, rather proud that he managed to keep himself from rolling his eyes. A conman indeed. "Master, they're SlaveMart rejects, not Chelsea auction goods. He probably didn't pay more than a couple hundred bucks a head, if that. A few pennies more than it would cost SlaveMart to euthanize and cremate them. When he's done he'll put them all down. Gas, if they're lucky, or maybe poison in the water. They wouldn't be worth the cost of bullets or euthanasia kits. Then he can just set the place on fire, get the hell out of dodge, and leave you guys to mop up the mess."

The faces in the room at that moment could have given Edward Munch's 'The Scream' a run for its money.

"Oh for God's sake, you're not going to have to literally clean up the mess," Neal said, rubbing his head tiredly. Working with naive free men was exhausting. "I was being metaphorical. I'm sure city maintenance will take care of it, or maybe animal services. Relax."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Jones snapped, and Neal flinched a little at the sound, suddenly not so tired any more.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, what the hell is wrong with you?" Jones said, stressing each word like he was talking to a deaf man. "You're talking about sixty people, maybe more, being offed at once like it's nothing. I knew you were a criminal, Caffrey, but I didn't realize you were a goddamn sociopath." He made a disgusted sound. "You belong behind bars."

"Jones," Peter said sharply, but Neal didn't need his master to defend him. Not in this case.

"You think so? Because it looks to me like you're the one toting the gun." Neal nodded toward it with open distaste. "Hundreds of slaves get offed every day by SlaveMart alone, and who knows how many when you include the other slave corps and all the private owners who get tired of their toys, *Agent* Jones. Though I'm not sure how well deserved the title of 'agent' is if you don't know that." He looked around, making a disgusted sound. "The longer I spend in Vice Collar, the more embarrassed I am to have been caught by you guys. Do any of you know anything about slavery at all?"

"I know that you have no right to talk to me like that, boy," Jones snapped, rising. Neal cowered back, silently thanking God when Diana stood and caught the man's shoulder, shoving him back down into his chair. This was particularly pleasing since, technically, Jones had every right to beat the shit out of Neal for that kind of remark.

"Cool it, Clinton," Diana said, giving Jones what Neal had begun to think of as her patented look of death. She sat back down and put her elbows on the table, leaning forward toward Neal with an intense look on her face. "We might as well admit it—Caffrey's right."

Peter's eyebrows shot up, and Jones made a choked sound. Neal guessed such declarations from the fiery probie didn't happen everyday.

"Well, he is. Most of the people in this office don't know shit about everyday slavery, because everyday slavery is legal. It's not our job to police how people punish their slaves or how many slaves a corporation puts down. It's our job to stop masters from using their slaves to commit crimes. Sure, we take down some black market slavers now and then, but that's still not your everyday slavery, and it's as far as we go. Which is why we need Neal."

Neal blinked. "I'm assuming that something other than 'to get our coffee' is implied by that statement, but I'm not sure what."

Diana shrugged. "We need you because you know the industry. Intimately. There is a big, gaping hole in our knowledge when it comes to slavery, and that's knowing it from the other side. You understand why the people in the slave trade do what they do, and that's an asset." She glanced over at Jones, who was openly sulking. "Even if you are a mouthy pain in the ass sometimes."

Neal's brow furrowed as he mulled over the words. "You mean that *none* of you guys knew that Hagen would put down his slaves when he was through with them?"

Diana shook her head. "No, because none of us could imagine putting down a slave at all."

"People do it all the time," Neal said absently. "In the bathtub, usually. There are services you can call to pick up the bodies."

Peter made a face. "Some people may do that, Neal, but not good people. And the people in my office are good people. I make sure of that."

"Is that why you got rid of the hat stealer?" Neal asked, instantly regretting the question. He'd sworn to himself that he wouldn't mention it unless Peter did. What his master did or did not tell him was none of his business, and, truthfully, Neal didn't want to Peter to realize that he had connections in the building.

"That's exactly why," Peter said, not seeming surprised at Neal's magical knowledge of FBI going-ons, much to his relief. Neal supposed he just assumed everybody knew by now. "Stephen Johnson had no respect for slaves, and people who have no respect for slaves don't belong in Vice Collar. Our job is to help slaves get away from criminal masters so they won't be forced into breaking the law, not to force slaves into doing bad things ourselves."

So apparently making Neal take his dick fell under Peter's definition of a "bad thing." Good to know.

"He didn't commit any crime," Neal said, then paused. "Well, it wouldn't have been a crime if I wasn't your slave, anyway."

"I know," Peter said, voice a little strained. "But I expect my people to go beyond just following the letter of the law. I expect them to take responsibility and make the moral choice even in situations where the law wouldn't hold them accountable. I don't care what people say—it is not right to hurt a slave. You can't get away with beating your dog, but you can beat your slave who can talk and think and dream? That makes no sense. Not to me, and not to anyone in this room."

"It makes sense to me," Neal said, and Peter gave him a tight smile.

"But not because you would hurt a slave. Because you *are* a slave. If there is one thing an agent needs to understand, it's that having the power to do something doesn't give you the right to do it. Not if it's immoral. Otherwise, we end up like Johnson—just as bad as the criminals we're supposed to catch."

"So am I like Johnson?" Neal asked, honestly wondering where he fell on Peter's imaginary line of 'right versus wrong.' "I mean, I *am* a criminal."

Peter opened his mouth to respond, but Jones beat him to the punch, letting out a loud snort as he leaned back in his chair and looked Neal up and down.

"Face it, Caffrey, you are way too prissy to fall into the same category as a knuckle dragger like Johnson. It's tough to get your hands truly dirty when your biggest fear is chipping a nail."

Neal wasn't entirely sure whether that was a subtle compliment or a underhanded insult, but it *was* the first time Jones had called him anything other than 'boy.'

"I think what Jones means," Peter said, shooting the other man a look, "is that while you've most definitely made some *very* bad choices in the past, it was never with the intention of hurting anyone. In fact, you've gone out of your way to make sure you didn't hurt anyone. If I thought you were like Johnson, I wouldn't have even agreed to go see you at the prison, much less taken you into my home." He paused. "But now that you are part of my team, I expect you to go above and beyond when it comes to doing the right thing, too. And if you don't, you're out, just like Johnson."

Neal swallowed hard, unconsciously reaching up to touch the metal collar resting beneath his tie. He definitely didn't intend to be anything like the hat stealer. Not when being like the hat stealer might very well land him in the same prison as his attacker, in a much worse position.

"As for Stephen Johnson," Diana said, "he can't hurt anyone else now, and we have you to thank for that."

Neal blinked, realizing it was true. He hadn't thought of it like that before, but if he hadn't told Peter what happened then the hat stealer would still be out there, free to harass slaves much more innocent than Neal.

"You really think of me as part of the team?" Neal said, shoving down his feelings about prison and latching onto Peter's earlier words. Sure, he had agreed to help out the FBI, but slaves helped out everywhere, and it didn't make them a part of any "team." Especially a team made up entirely of free men.

"Of course you're part of the team," Peter said, like it was obvious. "Why do you think you're sitting here with us now while thirty other agents push papers at their desks? Yes, you're part of my team."


	28. Vienna Gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter learns about Neal's past, Neal makes more plans to woo his master, and a mockingbird with information on the Dutchman is seen in the park.

"Hey hon," Peter said, grinning as he walked up toward his beautiful wife. Her hair was waving lightly in the breeze, blue eyes shining in the early afternoon sun. What a perfect day for lunch outside the dreary walls of the FBI. "I'm so glad that you—"

"I want you to have sex with Neal." The words came out in a jumble, each one rear-ending the other leaving a giant pile up of 'what the hell?!' behind.

Peter came to a halt, staring at her in disbelief for a moment before shaking his head to clear it. Okay, obviously he'd spent too many hours staring at Neal's obscenely attractive face today, because there was no way in hell his wife had just said what he thought he'd heard. He really needed to limit his Neal-viewing time to no more than ten minutes every hour. Or maybe fifteen, if the slave's chin had just the right amount of stubble on it and his hair was slicked back in that dapper way he had—

Okay, thoughts *way* off track there. Time to get back to reality.

Peter took a seat at the table, doing his best to paste on his normal smile and pretend he knew what the fuck was going on. What rhymed with 'I want you to have sex with Neal?' 'I want you to nab Rex the eel?' 'Ay, won't you choose our Texas ale?' 'I brought you two bad Czechs from Yale?'

Maybe not.

Peter cleared his throat and picked up the coffee El had ordered him, taking a sip. "I'm sorry, hon, I didn't get that."

"I *said,* I want you to have sex with Neal."

Peter sucked in a breath, sending his coffee flooding down the wrong pipe and causing him to hack madly as he choked on the sludge.

El leaned forward in her chair, biting her lip in that cute little way she did when she was nervous, then reached across the table, opening her hand.

He took it silently, because it was what he was he supposed to do, though his heart was still pounding like a hammer, adrenaline rushing through his veins. What the hell was going on here?

Peter took a deep breath, trying to remember what they taught him at the Academy about handling yourself when under enemy interrogation, because what else could this be? His wife had caught him in a *very* compromising position the night before, and now she wanted to test his loyalties. Okay, rule number one, don't let your fear control you.

"I'm sorry, hon, but you aren't making any sense," Peter said as calmly as he could, squeezing her hand. "You know I don't want Neal. I want *you.*"

El actually rolled her eyes. "I think we're past that point now, sweetie. Way past that point. It's obvious that you love Neal, but that's not why I asked you to lunch." She paused, frowning slightly. "Well, it's not the main reason, anyway."

Rule number two, don't allow the enemy to trick you into confirming classified information. "I don't know what you're talking about," Peter replied, shaking his head. "Yes, I care about Neal, but I'm not in love with him. I'm in love with *you.*"

"Hon, you can stop working your way through the Tactical Guide to Surviving Interrogation. I'm not Al Qaeda, I promise."

Peter shifted uncomfortably. Apparently he wasn't being as subtle as he'd thought.

"I'm not here to hammer you for what happened last night. When I said we'd start over today, I meant it. I'm here to talk about Neal. A friend of his came to see me today."

Peter's eyebrows shot up. A friend of Neal's had visited El? As far as he knew, Neal only had one so-called friend. "Was he a little guy? Bald head, thick glasses?"

El looked at him in surprise. "Yeah, that's him. Dante Haversham, he said his name was. Claimed to be one of Neal's old trainers. How did you know?"

"He's met with me, too," Peter said. "A few days ago. I take it he showed you the picture?"

El frowned. "He showed me a lot more than one picture. In fact, he gave me a whole binder full of information."

A whole binder full of information on Kate? Why in the world would he give it to Peter's wife instead of Peter himself? This didn't make any sense.

"Did he come to the house?" Peter asked, not particularly thrilled with the idea of strange men lurking around their home waiting for him to leave, friend of Neal's or not.

"No," El said with a shake of the head. "He came to my office, actually. He didn't tell me he'd already met with you, though."

"He doesn't seem the type to hand out information," Peter said, and El nodded in agreement. "So do you have the binder?" He knew he sounded eager, but he didn't care. If there was even the slimmest chance that something in that binder could innocently explain why Kate had last been seen with an FBI agent groping her shoulder, he wanted to see it.

El took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I do have the binder. But you can't see it. Not yet."

Peter sat back in his seat, feeling like he'd just been punched in the gut. This was *not* how things worked between him and El. They did *not* have secrets. What was Neal turning them into?

"That's not us," he said, his sense of betrayal tinging his words. "We don't keep secrets from each other."

"I know," El said, her voice strained. "And you have to believe me when I say this is not what I want. But before I give it to you, we need to talk."

"About what?" Peter snapped. "Me having sex with Neal? I'm starting to wonder if this Haversham guy replaced you with a robot or something." His eyes darkened as a horrible idea washed over him. "He didn't threaten you, did he?" Peter asked in a low voice. "Because if he did, I will make him very sorry."

"No, no, nothing like that," El said. "In fact, I was the one flashing a knife at him. Always be prepared, right? He just talked to me for awhile, gave me the binder, and left."

"Talked to you about what?" Peter asked, remembering his own conversation with Haversham, including the man's dramatic warning about not falling in love and his brash declarations of sorrow over the fact that Peter already had. As if the little looney had any idea what Peter felt at all. Neal was brilliant and beautiful and tempting, but Elizabeth was his wife. She was the one that he loved.

"He talked to me about Neal. More specifically, about how Neal isn't necessarily who you think he is. This Haversham guy, he really cares about Neal, and he's trying to protect him."

"From what?" Peter said, wondering yet again why the man had decided to go to El with this information instead of Peter. He was the one with the FBI connections, not her. There was nothing El could do to find Kate. Peter, on the other hand…

"From us."

Peter looked up at that, furrowing his brow. "What do you mean, protect him from us?"

El shrugged one shoulder. "He's afraid that once we—well, more specifically, *you*— find out who Neal really is and what sort of things he's done, that you won't want anything to do with him anymore, and he'll be thrown back to the wolves. That's why he gave me all of Neal's history."

Peter stiffened. Wait a second. Back up. All of Neal's history? "Is that what was in the binder?" Peter said cautiously. "Neal's history?"

"All of it," El confirmed.

"Anything about Kate?" Peter pressed, making his wife frown.

"A little bit. Not much, though. Just how they met and some old security photos of places they lived. Neal wasn't really running a con on her, so he didn't put much information about her on paper."

So Haversham had gone to Peter about the missing Kate, but to El about Neal's past. That was… interesting. Peter considered sharing with El what he'd seen in the photo, but his ego convinced him to keep his mouth shut for now. If El wasn't willing to share everything with him, why should he share everything with her? If that made him seem like a whiny little boy, so be it.

"So what about Neal's history is so bad that you don't think I can handle it?" Peter asked. "Please tell me he didn't kill anyone."

"No, no, of course not," El said. "But there were other things. Things that might change the way you feel about him, and I don't want to see that happen."

"El," Peter said, squeezing her hand, "I swear to you, what I feel for Neal—"

"Is what I feel for him, too," El cut in. "I admit, all those years ago I thought you were a little crazy, chasing after the elusive James Bondage like a kid on the playground. I realized how you felt about him, long before you realized it yourself, but I just thought it was cute. As for now, well… Maybe, just maybe, if the Neal Caffrey you chased all those years ago had come home from the prison with you, I might have been jealous. I mean, he was like a super hero. How do you compete with that? But the boy you brought home *wasn't* that Neal. He was still the Neal you'd fallen in love with, but he was so much more, too. And just like you fell for criminal mastermind James Bondage all those years ago, I'm falling for the sad, lonely slave who calls himself Neal now."

Peter just stared at her, feeling numb, and she continued.

"All I want is to hold him and protect him and teach him what *real* love is. The perfect Neal Caffrey you chased wouldn't have needed any of those things—he was his own keeper—but the real Neal, our Neal, does. And I want to give it to him. It's about time he knew what real love is. That's why I can't chance giving you the binder. It's only been a week, but if he left now, there would be a hole in my heart."

Peter swallowed hard, stomach twisting. He wasn't sure how he felt, hearing his wife declare her love for another man. If it was anyone else in the world, Peter would probably be crying right now. But this wasn't just anyone—it was Neal. Brilliant, beautiful Neal. Everyday he shattered another one of Peter's expectations, but he was still Peter's Neal, still the smart, savvy man he'd chased, no matter how different he was from the image Peter had built up in his mind. 

Neal had always been a shining light, drawing Peter in like a moth, and while the light was a bit dimmer now, it wasn't any less effective. So though, in a way, El's words were a stab to his heart, they were also a relief to his soul. His wall of guilt could finally come crumbling down, leaving him free to admit to himself and everyone else how he really felt.

"Peter?" There was a tinge of fear to El's voice, and Peter realized he'd been sitting there in silence for several minutes. He sniffed, surprised to find tears welling up in his eyes.

"I love you, honey," he said, feeling the need to spell it out. 'Hey hon' was great, but sometimes the words needed to be heard.

"I love you too, honey," El whispered back, then she leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss on his lips. They lingered like that for a moment before Peter reluctantly pulled away.

"Do you really think there is anything in the world Neal could do that I couldn't forgive?" he asked softly, making El's lips tighten.

"I don't know," she said. "And that makes me afraid."

Peter nodded, not sure whether or not he should be offended by his wife's lack of faith in him. On the other hand, he had to admit that he was a little more by the book than she was, and when he said 'by the book,' what he really meant was judgmental. His sense of right and wrong was so strong sometimes it took him over and he became a little too much like the cowboys he loved to watch in old movies, shooting criminals down on dusty streets with the noontime sun hanging overhead.

"How does this tie into, well, what you said earlier?" Peter couldn't bring himself to actually say the words, even the thought making his cheeks burn.

El sighed. "I want to love Neal. You want to love Neal. Unconditionally, like real love should be. But Neal doesn't want what we consider love. He doesn't even understand the concept. What Neal wants is to feel secure and safe. Right now he is living every moment in fear, and he will continue to live in fear until he has convinced himself that we see him as irreplaceable."

"He *is* irreplaceable," Peter protested. "The wealth of knowledge he has about the slave industry… It's astounding. The Vice Collar unit is going to start solving crimes like crazy."

"I know that, and you know that… but that's not what Neal thinks of as real safety. You consider him a valuable asset, but he considers himself a fuckling." El sort of stumbled over the word, lips twisting up in disgust. "His entire life, his security has been in knowing that his masters 'loved' him." She made quotation marks in the air around the word 'loved.' "But what he calls love, you and I would call lust or need or even obsession. He believes that, in order to be prized, he needs to submit completely to his master. It's part of his con. And that means sex. Neal will not feel safe until you have sex with him. And we can't even begin to teach him what love is until he feels truly safe."

Peter could tell by the look on her face that the words made her feel as sick as they did him, but she didn't take them back.

"I don't understand," Peter said. "We don't have to teach Neal what love is. He's the ultimate romantic. You should see the things he did to woo Kate, the lengths that he went to in order to make her happy. It was unbelievable."

"Exactly," El said. "In his mind, that's what love is. You give your master or mistress what they most want, and they treat you like a precious possession. Or, in some cases, you hold out on giving them what they want until they're desperate for you, then you give in and become their best prize. He didn't move mountains for Kate because he was a romantic, he did it because he believes that love is something that disappears if you don't keep on sacrificing yourself. Why do you think he escaped prison with only three months until freedom? Because he believed that if he didn't find Kate and give her whatever she wanted, she would take back her love and move on like he never existed."

"But that's not love," Peter said, shaking his head. "Love is free. If it's not, then it's not true love. It's greed."

"You and I know that, but Neal doesn't. And how would he? He's never known real love before. He's lived a life of trade—his skills for their obsession. At least then he got to feel truly wanted, unlike most efflings, who are considered one step above a blow up doll. And his formula always worked, every single time." El paused, a strange look in her eyes as she studied her husband. "Well, almost every time."

"I still don't see how this adds up to me having sex with him. You saw how broken up he was after that bastard Johnson got to him. And the look in his eyes he gets sometimes when I go to hug his shoulders or touch his back…" Peter gave a little shudder. "I can't go and hurt him like that."

El sighed. "Peter, you're going to have to trust me on this. I've seen the evidence, and there's no arguing with it. Neal wants you to have sex with him. He’s been planning it all along, working up to it step by step. I'm not saying that he's not afraid of you. I'm not saying that he wants to get pleasure from you. I'm not saying that he looks forward to the experience itself. I'm simply saying that he wants you to perform the physical act so that he can sleep soundly at night instead of plotting more ways to win you over."

"The idea alone makes me feel sick," Peter said, and he meant it. When he had sex with someone, he was making love. That's what sex meant to him—love. The idea of it being nothing more than two bodies pressed together, the one on top putting on a show of dominance like some kind of animal, made him want to cry. Especially when it involved Neal.

"Me too," El said. "And I'm not saying that you have to do it. We can go on like we are now and hope that everything will work out, that we will be the exception to the rule. But I think it's time for us to think about what's really right for Neal instead of what we *want* to be right for Neal."

Peter shook his head, feeling queasy. "I don't know if I can do it, El. Even for Neal."

"Just think about it," she said, squeezing his hand. "That's all I'm asking you to do."

o o o

Neal spun around in the office chair just for the hell of it. It wasn't like this was a con that could be blown by him acting like a juvenile idiot, and he didn't have anything better to do since Peter had taken off for lunch with Ms. El half an hour ago. He *could* go to the cafeteria if he wanted—Peter had left him a permission slip—but the place still made him feel sick to his stomach as he remembered what has happened there only a few days before.

Damn that hat stealer and his horny dick. That mess had definitely set Neal's plans for proving his worth to Peter back at least a few days, or so Neal had been trying to convince himself. It was better than the other possibility: that Neal was failing miserably when it came to winning over Peter.

Ms. El seemed confident that things would get better now that they'd had yet *another* talk on the basic principles of slavery, but his master had proven himself over and over again to be especially thick headed, and Neal wasn't convinced it would happen.

Neal *had* been surprised to discover just how very turned off Peter was by the idea of physically punishing a slave even when they'd done something wrong, but he supposed he shouldn't be. There were much more down and dirty departments to work in than Vice Collar, which spent a good majority of its time tracking down nobodies committing slave registration fraud or running backyard boiler rooms selling nonexistent slaves. The kind of cases that would have been on White Collar's role if they didn't involve slavery of some sort. Prissy crimes, no blood shed involved.

He still wasn't totally convinced, however, that Peter was as entirely saintly as he played it, or perhaps didn't want to believe it was a better choice of words. After all, if Peter really was Mother Theresa in a Brooks Brothers suit, he had no need in his life for a criminal and a whore like Neal. In fact, he had more than a few reasons to send Neal packing after the Dutchman gig was finished. A fucking list of reasons.

1\. Being a flaming, unrepentant criminal. Peter was not exactly fond of criminals.   
2\. Being a blatant, whorish fuckling. Neal still remembered the look of shock and disgust on Peter's face when he'd discovered Neal's actual product usage.   
3\. The whole Seize and Destroy mess, which had technically made Peter an accomplice to a crime when he didn't turn Neal into SlaveMart for euthanasia.   
4\. The hat stealer fiasco, which had forced Peter to fire a member of his staff and become Subject of Interest #1 on the office gossip channels.   
5\. Having totally shattered the comfortable bubble of innocence Peter had been living in—exactly what Agent Hughes had warned him *not* to do on his first day there. 6. Finally, to top it all off, the threat on the lives of both Peter and his wife, thank you very much Master Vincent, you total prick.

Wow, that was a lot of reasons to throw Neal back in the Dumpster where he belonged. He'd better start plotting a new way to wiggle into Peter's life as his usual methods had failed him again and again.

Once upon a time Neal had believed that his usual game had failed because Agent Peter Burke was just that powerful. He'd almost taken pleasure in the way the man never truly fell for his bluff, proving himself a worthy opponent. Hell, Neal had continued to play the game after he'd been caught. There had even been times when he dreamed about what it would be like to belong to someone as powerful as Agent Burke, who was never fooled by Neal's little schemes and whose sense of justice was so strong that he tossed foolish slaves like Neal, who thought they were so very smart, into hell just to prove how lowly they really were.

In less than a week, however, Neal's entire understanding of Peter had changed dramatically, and he honestly had no idea what game he was playing anymore. None of his usual tricks worked at all, which Neal now realized was probably the reason Peter had been able to catch him at all—not because he was some brilliant mastermind of a crime stopper, but because Neal's sad attempts to win his attention hadn't swayed his feelings at all. Unblinded by emotion, Peter had put an end to the reign of Neal Caffrey, and it probably hadn't meant anything to him at all. Neal was just another criminal in a sea of criminals that Peter had put away, not special to the man at all. The only person Neal had been conning all those years was himself.

Neal blinked rapidly to disperse the strange watering in his eyes. Obviously the air conditioning in here was on way too high.

Now that Neal had this new information, it was time to reassess his plan. He had expected Agent Burke to take him right away, to proclaim his dominance and mark Neal as his possession. It was what all the other masters he'd played with had done when they’d finally gotten the chance. He'd expected to be playing the same role as always: the subservient, powerless slave who'd finally been outsmarted and had his place shown to him by the big, strong master. Only this time it wouldn't have been Neal playing his owner—it would have been the truth. His go-to con come to life.

Only that wasn't how it had gone, because Agent "call me Peter" Burke wasn't who Neal had expected him to be. And Neal had a feeling he wasn't exactly what Peter had expected, either. Neal needed to stop trying to win over Old Burke, and focus on New Peter. The question being, who was New Peter and how did he compare to Old Burke?

Logic and order had always worked in Neal's favor before, and he supposed it was a day for lists. Hopefully this one would be a little less depressing than the one he'd mentally jotted down a few minutes ago. Neal licked his lips and grabbed a pen and yellow legal pad off his desk. Might as well put this one down on paper.

Neal first drew a horizontal line about half the way down the page, then drew a line down the middle of the upper half, writing 'Old Burke' on the left and 'New Peter' on the right. It kind of sounded like bad city names, but whatever. At the bottom he wrote 'The Plan.' He'd start with his master's character traits then work out the con from there.

'Powerful' went under both names, but Neal annotated it with 'sadism' under Old Burke and 'moral superiority' under New Peter. Old Burke had shown his power through cruel acts such as making Neal a prison slave, while New Peter showed his power through irritatingly smug but ultimately harmless remarks that might prick Neal's pride, but didn't do him any physical damage.

'Generous' went under New Peter as well, and Neal circled it several times. New Peter wasn't just generous, he was like goddamn Saint Nick, minus the whole patron saint of thieves thing. What Neal considered luxuries, his master considered the norm.

That didn't mean that New Peter was afraid to punish you if you really stepped out of line—the Adler video had proven that—but unlike Old Burke he didn't do it simply to show that he could. Neal jotted that down as well.

Next, New Peter was obviously attracted to Neal, but Ms. El was going to be a big factor in that area. Neal was certain, given enough time, he could press the man into having intercourse with him, but after last night, Neal wasn't sure Ms. El would leave them alone in the same room for half a minute. That meant that he would have to target his master during work hours, maybe even have sex with him in the building. Down at the bottom of the pad, under the title 'The Plan,' Neal wrote a number one then 'scout building for black spots.' Surely there was somewhere in this place with no people or cameras, even if it was a maintenance closet.

Also, if Neal wanted to succeed in his mission, he really needed to start working on his looks. If he'd been used goods before prison, well, at least they'd been pretty used goods. Now he was just pitiful, skinny as hell with bruises all over his body. At least the ones on his face had faded away. Thankfully the Burkes gave him plenty of food so he wouldn't have to dig through the trash to fill out, but he really needed to get his muscle mass back. Maybe he could work out at night? It didn't seem like the Burkes were planning on locking him in his cage, so it was a possibility. He could also use a haircut, and maybe some moisturizer. Neal wrote a number two, followed by the words 'prep self.'

It probably wouldn't hurt to try and bring Ms. El into the con, either. If he could get her on his side, he would have a much better chance at convincing Peter of his worth. All women liked shiny things, right? Well, Neal knew a place where there were plenty of shiny things. Number three, 'hit stash.'

What else? Neal eyed the New Peter column. Peter was really big on justice, that was for sure. If he could find where Hagen was producing the trackers, that would be a huge step in the right direction.

Number four, 'shake down contacts for C.H.'

Neal look at the list and sighed. It wasn't much, but it was better than what he'd been working with before.

"Hey Caffrey."

Neal's eyes widened as Jones appeared out of nowhere, looming over his desk. Neal quickly shoved the pad into his top drawer, smiling widely as he locked eyes with the agent.

"Agent Jones. What's up?"

The man grunted, holding up an envelope. "This just came for you. I took the liberty of reading it since Peter isn't here to do it."

"Gee, thanks," Neal muttered as he took the envelope, eyeing the torn seal.

"What were you doing?" Jones asked, and Neal looked up, feigning confusion.

"What do you mean?"

Jones nodded his head in Neal's general direction. "Just now. What were you doing?"

"Oh, just sketching," Neal said, waving the words away. "I finished up that fraud case, and Master hasn't given me any other files. Had nothing better to do."

"Mm-hm," Jones said, not looking all that convinced. "Well, I have plenty on my desk. I'll bring you a few so you don't waste away with boredom."

"Sounds great," Neal said, flashing another smile. "Thank you, sir."

He waited until Jones had disappeared behind the stacks before pulling a slightly crumpled sheet of paper out of the envelope, unfolding it.

'This is a notice from the SlaveMart training division,' it read, 'Please contact us at your earliest convenience regarding the change in your central registration. Please do not park in front of the building. We are open from 9:00 to 5:00, offices closed for lunch between the hours of twelve and one. Best Regards, Soo Yue Enos, Director'

Soo Yue Enos, huh?

Neal glanced at the clock. It was already 12:21, and Central Park was quite a walk from the FBI headquarters. He'd better get a move on.

See you soon, Mozzie.

o o o

"Here," El said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a thin file. She handed it to Peter. "Take a look at this."

Peter opened it up, eyebrows rising. Inside was a picture of Neal, as beautiful ever but with a boyish quality to him. He was much older than he'd been the time that Peter ran into him wearing his Thomas the Tank Engine t-shirt, with peach fuzz growing on his face, but he was still a kid. His hair was a little shorter than it was now, slicked back into a 1960s-esque pompadour thing, and his lips were curved into what could only be described as a seductive smile. Below the image were the words 'Brent Gatewood, Lot 73.'

Peter flipped to the next page, breath catching. A newspaper clipping was glued to the paper, and in the picture teenaged Neal was sitting at a man's feet, head bowed slightly but eyes rolled up to the camera. He also wasn't wearing any clothes, something that looked pretty awkward considering that the man holding the leash to Neal's collar was in a tuxedo, and there was obviously a party going on behind them.

The headline of the article read, 'Billionaire Richard Vicus Hosts Silent Slave Auction for Make a Wish Foundation.'

"Neal belonged to Richard Vicus?" Peter asked in disbelief. Their department had joined forces with White Collar just a few years ago to take the money laundering, black market slave running bastard down on mortgage fraud.

"Look at the next article."

Peter turned the page, finding another article, but with a much more ominous title. 'Diamond Encrusted Collar, Sapphire Studded Leash Stolen from Vicus Gallery.'

No way.

Peter flipped the page again.

'Police Report: Missing collar and leash, estimated value 1.5 million dollars. Suspect white male slave, late adolescence, last seen wearing collar and leash three days ago. Now listed in runaway slave database. Suspect was modeling items for gallery opening when he disappeared from the scene. Cameras tampered with, no evidence of wrong doing.'

"He stole the Midnight Starlight set?" Peter said, astounded.

"You didn't know that?" El asked.

"No, I didn't. Neal wouldn't have been more than eighteen at the time. We only looked at him for cases opened in his early twenties."

"Look at the next page."

Peter obeyed, frowning when he saw Neal's neat cursive. "My Dearest Master," he read aloud. "Please forgive me for leaving you behind, but I couldn't resist the temptation. Perhaps we will meet again someday, if Wonderland ever rises from the sea. With Love, Brent." Peter looked up at El. "Some kind of code?"

"Apparently so," she said, reaching out and flipping to the next page. The image was clearly taken from a security cam, and from the background Peter guessed it was somewhere on Coney Island. In the center of the image was a slim figure, face hidden from the cameras by—surprise, surprise—a black fedora, but what really caught the eye was the bright sparkle of carnival lights reflecting from the collar around his neck. It was the Midnight Starlight collar.

That set had never been recovered.

Peter breathed in sharply. He had assumed that Neal used up all his material resources when he was on the run from the FBI, but this made him wonder. The boy had been pretty quick to hand over his "emergency only" bank account information, which was understandable if he had a stash out there worth ten times that amount.

If Neal really was hiding millions of dollars of stolen goods somewhere, it might very well explain Kate's sudden disappearance.

Peter flipped through the rest of the file quickly. It was a bundle of cryptic clues and clandestine photos that went on for at least two years before finally ending with a bill of sale.

"Slave Trent Woodgate, sold to Master Richard Vicus for $400,000. Purchased from one Nicholas Halden," Peter said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Wait a second. Vicus bought him for a *second* time? Under a different name? After he stole millions of dollars in jewels from him?"

"Apparently so," El said. "And then disappeared again two months later, but this time there were never any clues sent."

"This is what Haversham gave you?" Peter asked, and El sighed.

"It's some of it. There's more. Lots more. Files just like that, or worse than that."

"What do you mean, worse than this?" Peter questioned, and El sighed again.

"Do you really want to know? I mean *really* want to know? Because if you do, then I'll tell you. We've never been the kind to lie to each other, and I don't want to start now. But I'm warning you… If you look at the whole book, you'll probably be sorry that you did."

"Are you sorry?" Peter asked, and El shook her head.

"No," she said quietly, "but I wasn't the one who chased him for so long."

Peter pulled his hand from hers, crossing his arms over his chest. "Has he killed anyone? Kidnapped anyone? Raped anyone?"

"No, I told you—it's nothing like that," El said. "As far as I can tell, he's never technically hurt anyone. Not that I've actually had time to go through everything I was given. It goes back years and includes video and audio and a bunch of other stuff. But I don't think he's ever harmed anyone."

"Then in that case, I want to know," Peter declared, narrowing his eyes at his wife. "Let me see it."

"I left it at the office," El said, and Peter sighed.

"Then summarize it for me. Please El, I have to know. I don't like being left out of the loop like this."

El looked down at the table, studying the grain of the cherrywood surface. "Fine," she said in a soft voice, raising her eyes once more. "I'll tell you, okay? But you have to promise me—swear to me—that you won't do anything rash. That you'll let it simmer, at least. The last thing we need is another incident like the punishment cage."

Peter's cheeks went red at the words, guilt washing over him. "I promise," he said quietly. "I swear, I won't do anything stupid. You can trust me on that. I give you my word."

"That's good enough for me."

o o o

"I saw a mockingbird in the park," Neal said, arms crossed over his chest and toe tapping impatiently.

"What color was the mockingbird?" came a deep, electronically masked voice. What was this, Watergate?

"Oh, for God's sake, Moz," Neal said, turning around and glaring in the direction of the tree Mozzie was hiding behind. "Do you think we could skip the secret handshake and get down to business? I'm not really a foreplay kind of slave."

Mozzie huffed, appearing out from behind the tree trunk. He was wearing a big straw hat with a colorful scarf covering half of his face. Neal held back the urge to groan.

"Seriously, Moz? I promise you, I am here alone."

"That's no reason to take chances," Neal's old trainer replied, pointing to the sky. "Did I teach you nothing? Satellites, Neal! Big Brother is watching."

"Right," Neal murmured, rubbing at his temples. "Let's make this quick, okay? I told Jones that I was going to the cafeteria, and I don't want to have to spend the rest of the day faking diarrhea as an excuse for why eating a cup of soup and an apple took me three and a half hours."

Mozzie's eyes widened. "Please tell me the Fed didn't send you off in that building all on your lonesome *again*? After what happened last time?" He shook his head. "Suit bastard."

"Relax, Moz," Neal said, pulling a piece of paper out of his jacket breast pocket. "Master gave me a note this time." He paused. "Of course that note says I'm supposed to be in a cafeteria a half a mile from here, so I would like to get this done before anyone tries to call me out." He tugged his shirt collar up, but it didn't do much to hide the much more conspicuous collar beneath it. "So what have you got for me?"

"Well, I checked out Hagen," Moz said, shifting his weight back and forth as he glanced around with his usual paranoia. "Obviously he doesn't own any properties, being a slave and all, but that woman he's with? The designer? Six months ago she purchased a warehouse down by the docks."

"What the hell would a one of a kind slave designer need a warehouse for?" Neal questioned.

"Nothing," Mozzie replied. "It's definitely Hagen's setup."

Looked like Neal could cross number four off of his list. C.H. was officially found.

"You think she's in on it?" Neal asked curiously. From what he'd gleaned from the Vice Collar team, criminal slaves working on their own were pretty rare, but Madam Tutu hadn't seemed like she had the brains to sign her own name, much less run this kind of op.

Mozzie shook his head. "No way. I talked to the seller, and he said her slave managed the whole deal for her. This is Hagen's gig."

"That's the Brits for you," Neal murmured, shaking his head. "You have an address?"

"Of course," Mozzie said, handing him a piece of paper. Neal slipped it into his pocket next to his permission slip and smiled. "Thanks, Moz. I seriously owe you one." He turned to leave, stopping abruptly when a hand came down on his arm.

"Wait," Mozzie said, suddenly sounding nervous. "There's one more thing."

"What is it, Moz?" Neal asked. "What's wrong?"

"The Suit… is he good to you?" Mozzie questioned, licking his lips. "I mean, I know it's none of my business, but I really need to know."

Neal frowned. "Yeah, he's good to me. I mean, he hasn't done anything horrible to me, anyway. There have been a few… misunderstandings, but he's been better to me than most of the guys I've sold myself to. Why?"

"Does he use you for, uh, um…" He cleared his throat. "For, um—"

"Sex?" Neal filled in, shaking his head in amusement at the look on Mozzie's face. "I'm a fuckling, Moz. You should really be able to say the word by now."

"Yeah, that," Mozzie said, pointedly ignoring Neal's remark.

"Why do you suddenly care?"

Mozzie gave him a look. "I've *always* cared."

Neal sighed. "No, we are not having sex. Yet."

"But you have plans to woo the Suit," Mozzie said, sounding a little disgusted.

"Yeah, but they haven't been going too well, to be honest. I'm having to reassess my angle." Neal sighed again. "I know he wants me, but every time we get close, it blows up in my face. I'm starting to think he sees me like he does his dog, you know? A nice enough pet but too far down the evolutionary chain to fuck."

"Or maybe," Mozzie countered, "he just respects you as a living human being and doesn't think it's right to use his governmental power to strong arm you into his bed. There are people out there like that, Neal. I'm not the only person on this earth who thinks of slaves as people."

"Yeah, yeah, and JFK is living out his golden years in Yonkers," Neal replied. "I don't have time for your conspiracy theories, Moz. I really do have to get back to work."

"Dammit, Neal!" Mozzie said, tossing his hands up in exasperation. "Do you have to make this so difficult?"

"Make what difficult?" Neal questioned, eyes narrowing. "What aren't you telling me?"

Mozzie took a deep breath then let it out in a sigh. "I really shouldn't do this. As much as I hate Feds, the Suit seems like a decent enough guy, and obviously he doesn't think you should know or he would have told you already. You're much better off with him than in that terrible prison."

"Stating the obvious isn't usually your style," Neal said.

"It's just…" Mozzie bit his lip. "Okay, I have something else for you. But before I give it to you, you have to promise me you won't do anything stupid."

Neal's eyes narrowed. "What do you have, Moz?"

"Promise me."

"Fine," Neal said, subtly crossing his fingers behind his back. Better safe than sorry. "I promise."

Mozzie sighed again then reached into his bag, pulling out a folded sheet of paper. "This was taken from a security camera on an ATM downtown."

Neal unfolded the paper, stomach dropping at what he saw.

It was Mistress Kate.

o o o

"Like I said, I didn't have time to look through the whole binder of stuff, but this is what I got from what I saw," El said, a serious look on her face. "During the time you were busy chasing James Bondage for forgeries and stolen art, Neal was playing a different kind of game. He would tell Kate that he was going to go do, well, whatever he told her he did, then he would find a mark, usually a rich business man, but sometimes a politician or even a high ranking cop—"

"Wait a second—cops?" Peter said, and El nodded.

"Yeah. He would choose his mark, and then he would work his way into their lives, become their slave."

Peter nodded. "Yeah, we called it the Hand to Mouth Con. He would get them to sign a hefty contract, buying him from one of his other aliases, then he'd take the money and run. We could never pin it on him, but we knew he was running it."

"Only he didn't stop there," El said. "In fact, that was when his real con began."

Peter frowned. "I don't understand. He had the money. What was left to steal?"

El sighed. "Their hearts."

Peter shook his head, confused. "What do you mean, their hearts? And I'm assuming you're not referring to black market organ trade."

El made a face. "No, I am most definitely referring to the metaphorical heart. Once he'd conned a man into purchasing him, Neal would put together a sort of file on every detail of his new master's life. Then he'd make a list."

"A list of what?"

"Ways to make the mark fall in love with him," El replied. "It's all in these letters I found between Neal and a guy I am guessing is Dante Haversham. In the notes, Neal called it the Vienna Gambit Con. He would analyze the mark—what he did and didn't like, whether or not he had a wife or kids, what spot in his life was empty that Neal could fill… Those kind of things. Using that, he came up with tactics to make them fall in love with him. Basically, he became whatever their vision of a perfect lover was. Then he left."

"He left?" Peter said, raising his eyebrows. "After all that, he just left? For what? Revenge?"

El shook her head. "No, because the con didn't end when he left. He would go on to play other masters while, at the same time, keeping contact with the masters he left behind. He kept his picture out of the runaway slave database by taunting and teasing them, encouraging them to try and catch him rather than report him to the police. He did it to dozens, maybe hundreds, of men, and Vicus was one of the few who reported it."

"What do you mean, he taunted and teased them?" Peter asked.

El bit her lip. "This is the part that's going to hurt, hon. Are you really sure you want to know?"

"Yes," Peter said firmly, though the sick feeling in his gut said otherwise. "I want to know."

"Neal would follow them and leave buildings just as they were entering, giving them a glance and then disappearing into thin air. He would send them birthday presents and Christmas cards and Valentine's Day candy. He would steal things that they were interested in, from gallery art to sports memorabilia, then send them pictures of the items in the mail. He would send them cryptic messages for clandestine meetings, then bail a few seconds before they arrived. And he kept a list of everything he'd done, a file for each man, I guess so he could remember how far into the con he was with which master. Then one day, out of the blue, he would return, tell them that all the running and games were because he loved them so much, then beg them to buy him under a new name—this one being his *real* name, of course—and start the whole Hand to Mouth Con all over again. A few months later and he'd be gone once more, only the second time it was goodbye for real."

Peter opened his mouth and closed it again, mind racing as memories began to flash in front of his eyes. Limericks left behind at big heists. A teddy bear on his desk on Valentine's Day. The sucker at the bank. Christmas cards in the mail. Anonymous tips that led Peter to the scene of a crime, five minutes too late.

It wasn't possible. It couldn't be. No, not him. He was more than that to Neal, and Neal was more than that to him. Right?

"Is there… Do I…?"

"Yes, honey," El said, her voice cracking slightly on the words. "You have a file."


	29. Silence is Golden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fowler is up to no good, Peter learns why he never sees slaves, and Neal pisses off Jones yet again.

Neal slipped into the elevator, giving the young slave managing the buttons a tight smile. Goanup, wasn’t it? Something ridiculous like that.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Caffrey,” the boy said, making Neal grimace. Being called ‘Caffrey’ by rebel slaves like Alec Hardison or Carl Hagen and liberationist freaks like Mozzie or Nate Ford was one thing, but now he had fellow slaves—good, obedient slaves—calling him ‘Mister’? It was starting to feel like he was running a con.

“Hi, kid,” Neal replied, fingers slipping into his pocket to play with the photo Mozzie had dumped on him. Maybe he *was* running a con, pretending he didn’t give a damn about Mistress when what he really wanted to do when he saw that picture was scream her name from a rooftop. Or her title, anyway.

“Usual floor, sir?”

Neal sighed. As if this mess with Mistress combined with the crazy emotions of the past week wasn’t confusing enough, now he had a young slave treating him like a free man. It was a felony to impersonate a free man, and he was riding up to the damn floor that arrested slaves for that very crime.

“You do realize I’m just some agent’s effling, right?” Neal said, not giving a rip at this point what the kid thought of him. “You can drop all of the ‘Mr. Caffrey’ crap.”

Goanup’s face went red—well, redder than it already was, all covered in freckles and surrounded by orange curls—and he bit his lip, looking uncomfortable.

“Actually, sir, um,” he cleared his throat. “I may have accidentally overheard Agent Hughes telling my master that you’re basically an agent now.” The boy gave a sheepish grin. “He may have also told Master how ‘that smiley button boy of his’ had better call you sir and hit the buttons for you and give you anything else you want, whether it’s compliments on your hair or a blow job on the roof, ‘cause he’s pretty sure you’re going to sue him for damages if he doesn’t fix ‘this giant fucking mess.’” The boy made quotation marks in the air, blushing even redder. “His words, not mine.”

Neal stared at the boy in disbelief. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Goanup shrugged, looking embarrassed. “No, I’m fairly sure that’s what he said to my boss.” He gestured around the tight elevator. “It’s kind of hard *not* to hear what people say in here.”

“Great,” Neal muttered, rubbing tiredly at his forehead. “Because having the entire building gossiping about my non-existent lawsuit against the head of Vice Collar is exactly what I need in my life right now.”

“Tough day?” Goanup asked, and Neal made a rude noise.

The boy laughed. “Yeah, I understand.” He paused. “You know, I had a kind of crazy day yesterday, too.” His voice was just a little *too* casual, and Neal frowned.

“Really?”

Goanup nodded. “Yeah. My master took the Bobs home with him last night. Something about fixing the plumbing in his basement? I dunno, but they locked up maintenance before they left, which is where I usually sleep. So I figure, hey, what the heck, I’ll just sleep in the elevator. I mean, it’s warm and the carpet’s not too scratchy.”

Neal nodded, not surprised in the least that the asshole who headed up maintenance didn’t even bother to give his slaves mats to sleep on.

“So that’s what I was doin’—sleeping, I mean—when about eleven o’clock or so the elevator door opened up, and there was Agent Fowler from the Office of Professional Responsibility, climbing in.” The kid bit his lip, glancing up at the camera set into the corner of the elevator, then he took a step toward Neal, tilting his head just enough that his lips would be invisible to the lens. “Like I said, he’s from OPR, but the funniest thing happened when I stood up to hit the button for him.” 

“Oh yeah?” Neal said, though he didn’t have a clue where this was actually going.

The slave’s adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, nodding. “He tells me he’s not going to his normal floor, he’s going to Vice Collar.”

Neal’s brow furrowed. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah. And he does. Go to Vice Collar, I mean. He goes, and he stays maybe thirty minutes or so, then he comes back to the elevator, but now he’s got his phone out. Like I said, it’s hard *not* to hear stuff in here, and his phone, well, it was on speaker.”

“So he was talking on his speakerphone,” Neal prompted when the boy paused, having absolutely no idea what the point of this story was—much less why Goanup felt the need to share it with Neal—but interested nonetheless.

“No,” Goanup said, shaking his head. “He wasn’t talking, he was listening. Listening to your master while he talked to some guy named Jack about somebody called Feathers. He sounded really whiny, not like Agent Burke usually sounds and definitely not like someone who knows he’s being listened to by OPR. He told that Jack guy that he has a teensy tiny dangle wangle and that he needs to take Mr. T-Rex and shove him up his butthole, whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

Neal would have laughed if he weren’t busy contemplating what, exactly, Goanup’s words meant. “Wait a second, are you saying that this Agent Fowler *bugged* my master?”

“I’m not saying nothing,” Goanup replied quickly, stepping back to his place in front of the panel and hitting the button for Vice Collar. The elevator made a soft binging sound as it lurched upward. “I just push the buttons, you know? It ain’t any of my business what the nice agents do once they actually get to their floors. I just thought it was a crazy story, and since we were talking about crazy things happening…” He shrugged.

Yeah, it was a crazy story, the kind of crazy story that could earn Goanup a vicious whipping. If the head of maintenance found out his elevator boy was spreading stories about things that happened in the building, he would whip the skin off the kid’s back for sure. Considering what a jerk the guy was, he might even put the boy down. Gossip was considered one of the worst crimes a slave could commit.

First Lula and the Bobs had risked their safety to help Neal out when they thought he was in a tight spot. Now Goanup was warning Neal about machinations involving his master, knowing full well that if Neal told Peter where the information came from, there was a very good chance it would get back to the head of maintenance and Goanup would be facing the whip.

A decade of living on the border between free man and slave had left Neal questioning who and what he was on a fairly regular basis, but it was times like this when he was more than proud to declare himself a slave. Free men could take their back stabbing bullshit and suck his dick. There was no one as loyal as a fellow slave.

The elevator binged again, and the door slid open to reveal the office.

“You have a real good day, Mr. Caffrey,” Goanup said as Neal stepped out, giving him a sad looking smile. Of course, Neal would look sad, too, if he had basically slapped a sign on his own chest saying ‘please whip me now’.

“You too, kid,” he murmured as the doors slid shut behind him. “You too.”

o o o

Peter sighed as he trudged into the lobby of the FBI building, the files that El had given him over lunch feeling like a thousand pound weight in his briefcase.

Learning that he was yet another face in a long line of cons Neal had pulled over the years wasn’t exactly heart warming, but Peter also couldn’t bring himself to be angry about it. After all, it wasn’t as if Neal being a conman was some sort of secret. It did weigh him down, though, making him wish he could sit back, close his eyes, and sleep for a week.

“Master!”

Peter jumped half a foot in the air as his slave seemed to materialize from nowhere, appearing like magic before him. Okay, technically he appeared from behind one of the ugly, Greco-Roman wannabe pillars that lined the lobby, but it was close enough. Damn slaves and their uncanny ability to disappear into thin air then suddenly reappear when you least expect it.

Peter took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he had a feeling was going to be a very difficult conversation. “Neal, El gave me some files—“

“Fantastic, Master!” Neal interrupted, the maniacally wide smile on his face pairing well with his almost gleeful voice. “You’re looking good! Did you have a nice lunch? How was Ms. El? Absolutely fabulous, I’m sure. I mean, when is that woman not fabulous?”

Neal steered Peter in a very unsubtle manner as he yammered on, pointing them in the direction of the cafeteria. His long fingers dug almost painfully into Peter’s arm as they moved past a couple of janitors with amused looks on their faces and a small group of gossiping agents.

“Neal, what—“

“Do you like palm trees?” Neal interrupted again, his smile looking flat out painful now. “We should check out that palm tree over there. It’s quite the lovely little plant.”

Peter glanced across the mostly empty cafeteria in the direction Neal was pointing, brow furrowing as he took in an ugly-as-shit plastic palm tree stuck in front of some sort of maintenance closet.

“Uh, I wouldn’t sell my soul for it, that’s for sure.”

Neal burst into laughter, shaking his head as he continued to tug Peter along. “Oh, Master, you’re such a comedian.”

The plant was even uglier up close, not that Peter had much time to look at it since Neal immediately dragged him around it, yanking open the closet door behind it and nodding his head for Peter to enter.

Confused as hell, but not willing to try and argue with this frighteningly ebullient version of Neal, Peter entered, something he immediately regretted when he found himself practically jammed into a tiny room with a cart of cleaning supplies, a large breasted blonde girl wearing what looked more like an oversized sock than an actual dress, and a butt naked pre-teen boy stuffed into a cage barely tall enough for him to sit up in without craning his neck.

Apparently Neal had no latent claustrophobia issues, because he walked right in, shutting the door behind him and leaning up against it, letting out a loud sigh. The psychotic looking smile he’d been wearing a moment before had disappeared, replaced by a very distressed face.

Whatever was going on here, it definitely wasn’t good.

“Master, this is Lula,” Neal said, nodding toward the queen of the boobies then shifting his gaze onto nudie kid, “and that’s Root Beer.”

Peter nearly choked. Root Beer? The kid’s name was *Root Beer*? What the hell was *wrong* with these people?

“Hi, Agent Burke,” the kid said solemnly, making Peter wonder how the hell some boy-slave locked in a cafeteria closet knew who he was.

His confusion must have been written on his face, because Neal spoke up, saying, “I told them I was bringing you. You have a… reputation in the building, and I didn’t want to scare them.”

“A reputation?” Peter questioned, feeling more lost by the second. “What do you mean, a reputation?”

Lula’s eyes dropped to the dirty floor, and Root Beer grinned.

“They say you’re a psychopath,” the kid said helpfully, making Lula cry out, a horrified look on her face as she reached through the bars and slapped him.

“Shut your mouth, Root Beer,” Neal snapped, sounding like he was chastising a dog for barking at the post man. “Sorry about that, Master. It’s well known in the building that you don’t like seeing slaves.” Neal held up a hand before Peter could protest. “I know that you would never hurt a slave, but the head of maintenance forgot to mention that part when he warned his slaves to stay the hell away from you or face the wrath of God.”

Peter shook his head, mouth dropping open. “That’s nuts! Why in the world would he—“ Peter cut off abruptly, eyes going wide as it all clicked into place. “Hey, that’s why I never see any slaves around here!” He gave a short laugh. “Man, when Jones told me there are three slaves working on just our floor, I thought maybe I was going crazy.”

“You’re not crazy, Master,” Neal said, looking amused. “They avoid you on purpose.”

“Where are we, exactly?” Peter asked, glancing around the dirty, low lit little room with distaste. “Is this the janitor’s closet?”

Root Beer giggled, and Peter pointedly did not look in his direction. He didn’t care how used to slavery you were, keeping pre-pubescent kids naked in cages at your office was weird. Period. End of story.

“It’s a slave depository,” Neal said, and at Peter’s blank look, he added, “It’s like a break room for slaves. Not exactly the Ritz, I know, but it’s one of the few places in the entire building that has no security cameras. Not to mention that nobody wastes their time bugging them.”

Peter looked at him sharply. “Bugging them? What do you mean, bugging them? What’s going on, Neal?”

His slave bit his lip and shifted his weight from foot to foot, suddenly looking strangely nervous. “I can’t tell you where I got the information, but I am pretty sure that one of the agents from OPR is bugging your office, your cellphone, and possibly even your house. I think he might be taking the recordings from security, too, though I’m not sure on that one.”

“You talking ‘bout Agent Fowler?” Root Beer piped up, and Lula reached through the bars, smacking him again.

“Hush, Root Beer!” she snapped. “Think what will happen if it gets back to Agent Fowler that you were talking about him!”

“Wait, you two know Garrett Fowler?” Peter questioned. “I thought he was on leave, taking some time off after he lost his wife.”

Lula looked away, fingers tangling in her long, blonde locks, but Root Beer laughed, rocking back and forth in his cage.

“Oh, he’s back, and he’s reeeeeal interested in Neal. He sat on my cage for, like, an *hour* asking us and the Bobs questions about him. Dunno why, since we don’t even know anything about Neal except that he’s a fuckling and he’s got nice clothes and he belongs to you.”

Neal pushed away from the door, moving across the room toward the cage. Not that he had far to go considering that the closet was maybe twelve feet long at most. He squatted down so he was eye to eye with boy, glaring at him. “You need to shut your mouth, Root Beer,” he said, voice low and as cold as Peter had ever heard it. “Talking about free men like that is going to get you in serious trouble. Very, *very* serious trouble.”

“Sorry,” the boy replied, not sounding particularly sorry at all, in Peter’s opinion. Neal sighed, obviously annoyed, and stood up, pointedly turning away from the kid and moving back over next to Peter.

“So you think Fowler is bugging me?” Peter said, mostly to break the uncomfortable silence. Well, he thought it was uncomfortable. Lula and Neal didn’t seem particularly bothered. “That seems a little farfetched. Why would OPR want to bug me, of all people? I’m so by-the-book, my probies joke that they’ll read the FBI Handbook at my funeral instead of a eulogy.”

“I don’t know why,” Neal replied, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, black device about the size of a penny in diameter and maybe a quarter of an inch in width. “But I found this inside the phone on your desk.”

Peter’s eyes widened as he took the little piece of plastic, holding it up in the dull, yellow light of the bulb hanging from the ceiling.

“Wow,” Root Beer said in an awed voice, face pressed between the bars of his cage as he stared up with a huge grin. “That is *so* totally cool. It’s just like in my master’s video games!”

Neal and Lula shot the kid matching looks of death.

Peter shook his head in disbelief as he lowered what was obviously some kind of listening device.

“I disabled it,” Neal said. “Well, actually, I had a hacker friend of mine disable it so that the person listening won’t be able to tell it’s down for a few more hours, maybe even overnight. But eventually he’s going to figure it out, so we need to decide what to do fast.”

“This is… Damn,” Peter muttered, turning the thing around in his hand a few times before looking back up at Neal. “Okay, obviously *someone* is bugging me, but what makes you think it’s Fowler?”

Neal took a deep breath, that nervous look returning. “The thing is, Master… I can’t actually tell you that. You’re going to have to trust I’ve got it on good evidence that Fowler is, at the very least, involved in this.”

“What do you mean, you can’t tell me?” Peter said, a rush of annoyance flowing over him. “We’re partners, Neal. How are we supposed to work together if you’re keeping secrets from me?”

Neal rolled his shoulders, and Peter had a feeling that the slave was steeling himself. “I’m sorry, Master,” he said, voice carefully level. “As a good slave, I *should* tell you, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Oh my God,” Root Beer said in a giddy voice, his hands gripping hard at the bars of his cage as he watched with eyes the size of saucers. “Neal is *totally* gonna get his ass kicked.”

“Okay, that is *it*!” Lula said, pushing herself up onto her knees and grabbing something off the top of the cage. “Open your mouth, RB.”

The kid let out a whine that sounded a lot like a dying dog, shrinking back away from the glowering girl. “Please, no! I’m super sorry, Lula. Super sorry! Please, I don’t want—“

“Open. Your. Mouth!”

Root Beer whimpered, wrapping his thin arms around his bare upper body as he leaned forward until his face was pressed between the bars. He squeezed his eyes shut as he opened his mouth, face screwing up as he forced it wider and wider until it just flat out looked painful.

Lula lifted up what she’d grabbed off the cage, and Peter’s forehead wrinkled as a large, metal ring with a leather strap on each side glinted in the low light. What the hell was that thing?

Neal grimaced, dropping his eyes, but Peter couldn’t look away from the pitiful sight of the little boy sniffling in a cage. The slave girl leaned forward, using the fingers on one hand to spread the sides of the kid’s mouth apart while she used the other to wriggle the ring around until she managed to get it behind his teeth, leaving his mouth propped open so wide it *had* to hurt. Or at least be very, very uncomfortable.

Lula reached through the bars, wrapping the leather straps around the kid’s head and buckling them together at the back of his skull, effectively trapping him in what Peter now realized was some kind of very strange gag.

“Go ahead, then,” Lula said in a cool tone as she sat back, crossing her arms over her very ample bosom. “Speak your mind now, Root Beer.” She raised an eyebrow when the boy ducked his head, his little cheeks going bright red. “Well? You couldn’t stop talking before. So come on. Let’s hear you now. Tell us that you want to be a good boy.”

The boy made a sniffling sound, rubbing his face against his bare shoulder to wipe away the tears that were leaking from his eyes.

Lula scowled, reaching through the bars and smacking him on the back of the head. “Speak!”

The boy’s eyes glittered and he dropped his head as he muttered something that sounded like, “Uh ahn uuh eee ah ooohd oy.”

Lula cupped a hand around her ear, leaning toward the cage. “I didn’t quite catch that. Neal, did you hear that?”

Neal was still staring at the floor in front of his feet, but he forced his eyes up and over to the cage at Lola’s words. “No,” he said, “I didn’t hear that. I think he needs to speak a little louder.”

The boy glared at them, fingers gripping his cage bars painfully tight as he said, “Uuuh ahnt uuh eee ah oohd oya.”

“That’s very sweet. Why don’t you tell us again?” Neal said, and Peter shot him a look of disbelief. And here he’d thought threatening to kill a four year old’s stuffed toy was bad.

“Uuuuh aaht tuh eeee ah ooh oy,” the kid choked out again, his entire upper body now the same bright red as his face. He started to hide his face, but Neal shook his head.

“Uh-uh, no hiding. We want to see your pretty face.”

The boy made a sobbing noise that literally turned Peter’s stomach.

“Hm, maybe he should sing a song?” Lula said, and that was all Peter could take of this. Yeah, the evening at Jack and Rhonda’s had taught him that he didn’t know crap about the training of child slaves, but that didn’t mean he could just stand there while Neal and this Lula bitch humiliated some poor kid.

“How about you leave him alone?” Peter snapped, grabbing Neal’s arm and tugging him into the far corner of the room, as far from the cage as he could get. “Dammit, Neal, he’s only a kid,” Peter said in a quiet voice, though the other slaves could probably still hear him.

“Master,” Neal said in an even softer voice, leaning closer until he was practically whispering in Peter’s ear. “He’s not only a kid, he’s a slave. And he’s here in this building instead of on a playground somewhere having fun because he can’t keep his mouth shut. Lula and I are trying to help him be a good boy so that he can go back to his child-master.” He glanced over at the kid, grimacing again. “Considering that his adult master made the conscious decision to buy him a ring gag instead of a ball, getting him back to his young master as fast as possible is definitely the kindest thing we can do for him, even if that means embarrassing him a little.”

Peter frowned, looking over at the boy. Ugh, that gag was horrible. “I think this goes a little beyond—“

“Why do you think the gag is a ring, Master?” Neal interrupted, his voice back to its normal volume. “Tell me, why is it a ring?”

The kid made a noise somewhere between a moan and a whine, turning his face away, and Peter shrugged. “Because it’s uncomfortable?”

Lula covered her mouth with her hand, and Peter had a feeling that she was laughing behind it.

“No, Master,” Neal said, eyeing Peter like he thought he was a total idiot. “It’s so you can shut him up and still stick things in his pie hole. And when I say ‘things,’ I don’t mean popsicles or corn dogs or lollipops.”

Peter took an involuntary step back as the meaning behind Neal’s words hit him like a sledgehammer.

No way. It couldn’t be. That kid was underage for sure. Nobody would be brash enough to have sex with a child slave *inside* the FBI building! Even the idea was insane. There was no possible way… Was there?

Oh, God.

Lula sighed, tugging nervously at her hair as she studied Root Beer, who was now sitting with his head propped up on his knees, looking like he wanted to die with his little mouth locked open. Locked open so that some pervert could slip his junk in there.

“I really shouldn’t say this…” Lula said, her voice timid. “I… I know I shouldn’t.”

“What is it, Lula?” Neal asked, and the girl sighed again, dragging her eyes away from Root Beer and locking them on Peter.

“Agent Burke, you want evidence that it’s Agent Fowler who put that… that thing… in your office, right? Well, I don’t know if this counts, but what Root Beer said before? About Agent Fowler being really interested in Neal? It’s true. He really did come in here yesterday. He didn’t put any microphones, but…” She trailed off, and Peter frowned.

“But what?”

She wrapped her arms around her body, hugging herself tightly. “He did ask me if Neal carried a cellphone, and when I said that slaves don’t usually have cellphones, he asked me where I would put a recorder if I wanted to catch a slave doing bad stuff.” Her eyes were glittering as brightly as Root Beer’s now. “I told him, probably wherever the slave does their work, since slaves work more than they do anything else.” 

She burst into tears, hiding her face in her hands. Neal moved over to her, dropping down beside her and wrapping an arm around her shaking shoulders, holding her as she cried. Though why she was crying like that, Peter didn’t have a clue.

“Thank you for telling us, Lula. You really helped my master, a lot,” Neal said in a soft voice as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a handful of yellow capsules. “Here, why don’t you take these back? You probably need them more than I do.”

o o o

Peter deserved an award for how well he was managing to keep his temper in check. Really, he did. In fact, he damn well better get some applause from El, because it was taking everything he had not to go off on Neal right there in the goddamn elevator. But he really didn’t want a repeat of the ‘Vincent Adler babbles crap, Peter stuffs Neal in a cage’ incident, so…

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Calm, cool, and collected was the name of the game. If he could just make it to his office without erupting…

“Seriously, Neal?!” Peter not-quite-shouted, making Tommy the Button Pusher jump.

Neal was looking perfectly calm, of course. Not at all like he’d been dealing in illegal drugs only moments before.

“You really had Mellow Yellow in your damn pocket? Do you have any idea how *hard* I worked to get those pills off the streets?”

Neal laughed, which definitely did not help Peter’s mood any. “Mellow Yellow? Please tell me you didn’t come up with that name.”

Peter scowled. “We had to call it something.”

“The people who make it call it ‘armor,’” Neal said.

“Wait a second, you know who makes it?” Peter said, suddenly excited. If Neal could help them catch the makers of Mellow Yellow, he’d be worth a thousand times more than the trouble of one little contract.

“Not to be rude, Master Burke,” Tommy said in an overly solemn voice, “but are you one hundred percent sure that SlaveMart isn’t paying off your bosses?”

Neal hid a laugh with his hand as Peter glared at the boy.

“Excuse me?”

“SlaveMart makes the pills, Master,” Neal said, still looking annoyingly amused by the entire conversation.

Peter’s mouth dropped open, and he made a sound of disbelief. “You have to be kidding me. We spent an entire *year* working with the Drug Enforcement Agency and NYPD Narcotics trying to track down who manufactures those things! You’re saying it was SlaveMart the whole time?” He shook head, brow furrowing up. “Why in the hell would SlaveMart make Yellow, of all things?”

Neal and Tommy glanced at each other, then Neal shrugged.

“They add them to your food as a child. Well, they added them to my food, anyway, but I *was* a fuckling. Did they put them in your food, Goanup?”

“Yes, Mr. Caffrey,” the boy said with an annoyingly bright smile. “I think they stick them in everybody’s food for their cherry popping, sir.”

“Their *what*?” Peter said, making a face, and Tommy’s smile actually got brighter. He sure was a cheerful kid. 

“You know, when they send you to a trainer and he takes your virginity. Or stick you on a sex machine and *it* takes your virginity—SlaveMart is real classy like that. Either way, they slip you some armor first so they don’t have to deal with all of the yelling and whining and crying and stuff.”

Peter stared at them. “I can’t believe… I mean, I know that slaves like to take it for God knows what reason—that’s why Vice Collar was on the case—but SlaveMart actually *gives* it to you?”

“Um, not to be rude, Master,” Neal said, “but I don’t see what the big deal is. Sure, it’s not the most pleasant drug,” he made a face, “but the benefits do tend to outweigh the side effects. Why wouldn’t SlaveMart give it to their slaves?”

“It’s a form of Rohypnol, Neal!” Peter said, shaking his head. “You realize that, right? That it’s roofies? A date rape drug? Yellow was responsible for over thirty percent of reported rapes in the past year. SlaveMart didn’t slip in into your food out of the goodness of their hearts. They put it in there so you’d lie still and quiet, just like all of the women who got the stuff slipped into their drinks at bars and clubs!”

There was a brief silence, the whoosh of the elevator the only sound, then Tommy spoke up, his voice a bit timid.

“SlaveMart definitely doesn’t have a heart, Master Burke, but taking armor does make it hurt less.” He paused, licking his lips. “And, even better, it helps you forget.”

Wow, wasn’t today a bundle of heartbreak? 

“That’s exactly why rapists like it, Tommy,” Peter said tiredly. “They can slip it in someone’s drink then, later, the victim can’t identify who raped her because she can’t remember anything but a blur.”

The elevator binged as they reached the Vice Collar floor, and Peter sighed, his shoulders sagging. His anger was gone, wiped away by the realization that the same effects that made free men fear the drug were what made slaves want to take it. It was hard to be angry at someone who would rather have six to twelve hours of their memory erased than remember the horrible things they’d been forced to do.

The doors to the elevator slid open, and Peter slipped out, followed by a slightly wary looking Neal.

“Relax,” Peter muttered. “You win, again. The girl can keep her Mellow Yellow, armor, whatever you want to call it.”

“Thank you, Master,” Neal said quietly as he stepped up next to the man, pointedly keeping his face turned away from the security camera set into the stacks. “She’s going to need it when Agent Fowler realizes she gave him up.”

Peter stared at him. “What do you mean?”

Neal gave him a strange look. “When Agent Fowler realizes she talked to us about him, she’ll be punished. By him or her master or both. Why do you think she was crying?”

“I didn’t know why she was crying,” Peter admitted.

“Well, that’s why,” Neal said with a little shrug. “I mean, she’s an effling so she’ll probably be whipped *and* punishment fucked. She gave me the armor because she thought that’s what was going to happen to me, since word had gotten around that you were angry about the Agent Johnson thing. But considering that your idea of a beating is tapping your hand lightly against someone’s buttocks three times, I don’t think I’ll be needing them anytime soon.”

“Wait, you’re saying that she’s going to be whipped and raped because she told us that Fowler asked her if you have a cellphone?” Peter said, feeling sicker and sicker by the second.

“Yes,” Neal replied simply, which did not make Peter feel any better.

“How would Fowler even know she said something?”

“Well, we’re about to search my desk for bugs,” Neal said. “How else would we know to do that?”

“So you’re saying she’s going to be whipped and raped because someone *thinks* she might have been the one to tell us to look for bugs in your desk?” Peter said, disbelief clear in his voice. “That’s nuts!”

“Guilty until proven innocent,” Neal said with a shrug. “The legal mantra of slaves everywhere.” Apparently Neal was tired of talking about it—or maybe just sick of dealing with Peter’s naïveté—because he took off, heading toward his desk. Peter followed slowly, really wishing he could lie down and take a little nap. He wasn’t sure how many more shocks he could take today before he gave out completely.

Neal knelt in front of his desk, brow furrowing up as he began to run his hands along the underside in a methodical way, feeling for anything out of place. He then stood up, continuing the movements as he tugged out drawers, feeling inside and underneath. He paused at the second drawer from the top, eyes going wide as he moved a rubber band ball aside to reveal a small, black chip stuck to the very back of the drawer. If the drawer hadn’t been pulled out so far it was almost off its sliders, you wouldn’t have been able to see it at all.

Neal tore a sheet of paper off of a little green notepad, grabbing a pen and writing ‘WHY?’ in big, block letters across it.

Peter shrugged, miming a ‘who knows?’ gesture.

“Yo, Burke, what’s going—“ Jones cut off abruptly as Peter held a finger to his lips, pointing at the listening device in the drawer. The agent’s eyes narrowed, an irritated look crossing his face.

“Hey! Is that *my* rubber band ball?”

Neal flashed the man a smile that was way too innocent to be real, and Peter rolled his eyes, grabbing the notepad and scratching out the words ‘being bugged’ then holding it up to Jones’ face.

“Oh yeah?” Jones said, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose that it was by the mockingbird Caffrey saw in the park today, by any chance?”

Neal jerked, his mouth forming an ‘o’ as he stared at Jones with a face somewhere between fury and disbelief. “You were *following* me?”

“I’m not an idiot, Caffrey,” Jones said in a cool voice. “Despite what you seem to think. I know damn well that SlaveMart doesn’t send letters about registration changes to slaves.”

Peter rubbed his forehead, more than a little sick of the animosity that seemed to bubble continuously between Neal and Jones. “Do I even want to know what you two are talking about?”

Neal’s face was a shocking shade of red. “I can’t believe you followed me.”

“Followed you where?” Peter asked, looking back and forth between Jones’ self-satisfied face and Neal’s irritated one. These two really needed to take some time and work on their respect for each other.

“Central Park,” Jones replied, turning his attention to Peter. “He got a letter while you were out at lunch, and since his contract technically falls to me when both you and Hughes are out, I took the liberty of opening it. Supposedly it was from SlaveMart, an alert about registration changes, but it was obvious that it was actually some sort of code. I figured it was from one of his little criminal friends, so when he took off, I decided to tail him.”

“I was going to the cafeteria,” Neal said, though it sounded more like a question than a statement, and Jones snorted.

“Bullshit. The boy met up with some short dude with glasses at the park.” Jones frowned. “Actually, I’m pretty sure that it was the same short, bald dude who was trying to pass as a Fed in front of the building a couple of days ago. The one hiding messages in his Menthols?”

“Haversham?” Peter said.

Neal looked at him, shaking his head. “I still can’t believe you’ve met Mozzie.”

“Mozzie?” Peter asked. “I don’t know about a Mozzie, but, yeah, I met your old trainer after he slipped me a secret address. It was like something out of a spy movie. And if that wasn’t bad enough, this morning he showed up at El’s office. Forged her signature on some papers to trick her assistant into letting him in. What is his real name, anyway? He called himself Dante Haversham, but it was pretty obvious the identity was fake.”

“Oh, God help me,” Neal moaned, rubbing at his face with the heels of his hands. “Why, why, why do I put up with his crap?” He let out a loud sigh, looking up at Peter. “I’d tell you his real name, Master, but he always has about forty different aliases at any given time, so there’s no point in trying. I call him Mozzie, though. You’ll have to excuse him—he’s utterly insane.”

“I could have guessed that from the straw hat and the hot pink scarf,” Jones said dryly.

“And you snuck out of the building to meet him in a park, why?” Peter questioned.

Neal shot him a guilty look. “He had some information on the Dutchman, and there was no way he’d come here. I’m still shocked he got so close to the building the other day. Moz honestly believes that the Hubble Telescope takes pictures of everyone within one mile of any government building so that the CIA can add them to the secret database they share with WalMart and the NSA.”

“I would think being trained by someone so paranoid would be difficult, to say the least,” Peter said, and Neal looked at him a little strangely.

“You do realize he’s not actually a slave trainer, right? The man’s a liberationist. He just needed an excuse for keeping an eighteen year old slave boy in his apartment between his Russian spy gear and his life size cardboard cutout of JFK.”

Yes, Peter had suspected something along those lines, but it was nice to actually know for sure.

“Wait a second, you ran off in the middle of the day to meet up with a *liberationist*?” Jones said, sounding shocked, and Neal winced.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Neal said nervously. “He’s spent a decade trying to win me over to the dark side, and it hasn’t happened yet. It was only a comment, sir. I swear, I didn’t mean that I was meeting with liberationists. I was just talking.”

“Hm. Well, maybe you should start doing a little thinking before you speak out loud, boy,” Jones said in that no-nonsense, ‘don’t you dare fuck with me’ voice he seemed to save just for Neal. “Babbling about consorting with liberationists is not how a slave keeps the needle out of his neck.”

“Okay, that’s it,” Peter muttered, grabbing Jones by the arm and pulling him toward the stacks. “Neal, you wait here. We’ll be right back.”

“Yes, Master,” Neal said, looking more than a little bit worried as his master basically dragged off the agent Neal somehow ended up pissing off at least once a day.

“Clinton,” Peter said, releasing the man’s arm as they came to a stop beside the stacks, “you’re one of my best agents. Your experience with military slaves is invaluable, as are your slave interrogation skills. So as one of my best agents, surely you have to see what an asset Neal Caffrey is to this department.”

“Of course I do, Peter,” the man replied, forehead wrinkling up a little. “Caffrey is an amazing asset.”

“Then can you *please* work out your issues with him so that I can get a little peace around here?” Peter said, and Jones looked at him strangely.

“I have no issues with Caffrey,” Jones said, sounding like the idea actually surprised him, “just with the way he behaves sometimes. It’s obvious he’s very torn inside over his place—not surprising if he really spent a decade living with a liberationist—and his confusion causes him to swing back and forth between making good choices based on his conscience and acting out to assuage his ego.”

Right. Whatever *that* meant.

Peter sighed. “Yeah, well, I would really appreciate it if you’d try and improve your relationship with him. I need my team to run smoothly, and that’s hard to do when you’re constantly going at it over something stupid with Neal.”

Jones nodded, glancing across the room to where Neal was standing, staring at them with a rather nervous look on his face. “Yeah, sure thing, Boss,” Jones said, giving Neal a sharp nod that the slave hesitantly returned. “Consider the problem whipped.”


	30. Down and Dirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Neal fails at seduction, Peter makes up his mind, and Jones shows off his training skills, also known as his sonofabitch skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter has serious dub-con in it, very NC-17. Contains graphic oral sex. While it is consensual in the loosest sense of the word, in spirit the consent is very questionable.
> 
> We're getting veeery close to Peter and Neal actually getting together, and the point of the sex scene in this chapter is to show what "normal" sexual relationships between free men and slaves in this society are like so it can act in contrast to what Peter and Neal have (as well as explain why Neal is so confused by the kind way Peter treats him). Because YES, what Jones does in this chapter would be considered perfectly acceptable in their society, despite being totally sick and fucked up. Humiliation and degradation are the essence of a slave's training in this world, so treating someone like an animal and an idiot during sex is a norm.

Once again, Neal had managed to find himself knee deep in metaphorical shit.

 _”I have no issues with Caffrey, just the way he behaves sometimes,_ Jones intoned through Neal’s earphones. _“It’s obvious he’s very torn inside over his place—not surprising if he really spent a decade living with a liberationist—and his confusion causes him to swing back and forth between making good choices based on his conscience and acting out to assuage his ego.”_

Wow, wasn’t Jones a regular Dr. Phil? Okay, yeah, technically he was right—Neal *did* spend most of his time swinging back and forth between trying to prove he was a Very Good Slave by acting out every bit of training he’d ever received and trying to prove that he was better than everyone else by screwing protocol and doing whatever he pleased. But that didn’t mean Neal enjoyed being psychoanalyzed by arrogant free men.

 _“Yeah, well, I would really appreciate it if you’d try and improve your relationship with him. I need my team to run smoothly, and that’s hard to do when you’re constantly going at it over something stupid with Neal.”_ Peter sounded like he was ready to bitch slap someone, and Neal had a feeling Jones wasn’t the one who would end up getting slapped.

 _”Yeah, sure thing, Boss. Consider the problem whipped.”_ There they were again, those words. Said with such an amused lilt, like some kind of inside joke. Not that it was hard to figure out.

Neal backed up the recording, letting it play for what was probably the tenth time. Who knew having Alec rewire the bug so the recording went to Neal’s computer instead of Fowler’s cellphone would come in so handy? Neal hadn’t been sure that his master would actually keep the thing in his pocket, but so far, so good.

This thing with Jones, though… Neal really needed to get it under control. It was obvious that the man had a lot more experience with slaves than Peter, not to mention a much more traditional view on how they should be treated. Neal’s mouthiness definitely did not help their relationship.

Despite what it might seem, Neal wasn’t actually *trying* to piss Peter’s best agent off. In fact, he’d been trying to get on the man’s good side, albeit without much success. Now, though, it was even more important that Neal win Agent Jones over, as it was obviously what his master wanted, and he was all about giving Peter what he wanted. 

Unfortunately, everything he tried tended to blow up in his face.

‘Improve your relationship,’ Peter had said. The question was, what did that mean?

After the mess with the hat stealer, Neal knew what it probably *didn’t* mean—he doubted Peter would appreciate his slave fucking yet another of his employees—but at the same time, Neal was really at his wits end. 

Neal had a lot of experience winning over free men, it was one of his biggest cons, but it had been based off the ability to use his body. His personality definitely wasn’t going to win Jones over, that was for sure. In fact, he was fairly certain that the man couldn’t stand him. No, he needed something else to make himself worthwhile in the agent’s eyes.

The problem was, Neal was only good at two things, and Jones was definitely not impressed by his criminal wits, which only left…

No, he really shouldn’t go there. Peter had gone ape-shit when he heard about the hat stealer. Of course, this wasn’t the same thing as the hat stealer. It wasn’t like the agent would be jumping him in the supply closet or whatever. No, this would simply be Neal offering to help out a fellow member of the team.

And who said that Peter needed to know? Neal’s master was a busy man; there was no reason to bother him with little things like this.

Mind made up, Neal tossed his headphones back in the drawer and stood up. It was time to improve himself a relationship.

o o o

Peter frowned as he studied the files, tapping his pen idly against his desk. The so-called Brent Gatewood stared up at him with the sort of deep, soulful eyes that kind of make a man want to cream his pants. He had no problem understanding why Vicus had bought the boy a second time.

He bit his lip, leaning back in his chair with a sigh as he looked out his window into the main office area, studying Neal at his desk. The boy was turning lazily in his chair with his eyes closed, a pair of earbuds in his ears as he listened to, well, something.

At some point Peter was going to have to talk to him about this whole Hand to Mouth/Vienna Gambit con, and while he doubted that was going to be a fun conversation, it wasn’t the one he was most nervous about having. No, another topic won that award, for sure.

 _“I want you to have sex with Neal.”_ The words were still echoing in his mind, making his heart race and his stomach flip. 

At first, Peter had been one hundred percent against the idea. After all, using people for sex was *not* the same thing as making love, and the latter was definitely what Peter found pleasurable. However, as more and more of Neal’s past was revealed, Peter found himself starting to understand what El meant when she said that it was time they started thinking about what Neal actually needed, not what they *wanted* him to need.

It was obvious that Neal considered his body and his charm to be his most valuable assets, at least when it came to being wanted by masters. The fact that Peter had spent the last week basically ignoring both had certainly not helped the slave feel like a part of the household.

The truth was, if they wanted to start a journey with Neal then Peter was going to have to make the first steps, even if it wasn’t the most pleasant walk. Even Neal’s weird little trainer agreed with that, and Peter was pretty sure that one didn’t suggest people get it on with his friend lightly.

Peter took a deep breath, letting it out with a whoosh, eyes still on Neal. The man had ditched his earbuds and was leaving his desk, headed in the general direction of the coffee maker with a very intense look on his face.

God, he really was beautiful.

Screw it. Tonight was the night. If Peter waited any longer, he’d chicken out for sure. He would call up El, suggest that she go out with her girlfriends for dinner and a drink or three after work. He and Neal could have some time alone, and Peter would make the first steps in showing the boy that he was worth way more than he realized.

Mind made up, Peter tossed the Brent Gatewood file into his desk drawer and pulled out his cellphone. It was time to set himself up a little date night.

o o o

Jones was all alone in the second floor records room, making this a rather opportune moment to spring. Apparently the gods of fucklings were smiling down on Neal today.

Neal ran a hand lightly through his hair and straightened his tie, pasting the smile he used for seduction on his face as he walked through the door, trying his best to look casual.

“Hello, Agent Jones.”

Jones looked up from the file he was flipping through, eyebrow raising. “Caffrey. What are you doing here?”

Right to the point, that was Jones for you. Neal widened his smile.

“Actually, I was looking for you, sir,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t come off too husky. He didn’t want it to seem like he was trying too hard.

“Really?” Jones replied, not sounding particularly pleased that Neal had been searching the building for him. Not that he’d had to search long; Bob Two had known exactly where the agent was. Hell, Neal was fairly sure that the Bobs knew absolutely everything that was going on in the building at any given time.

“Really,” Neal confirmed, knowing that he was being a catty bastard but unable to stop himself. He moved a step closer to Jones. “I heard it through the grapevine that my master wants us to work on improving our… *relationship*.” He put extra emphasis on the last word, figuring Jones would get what he meant. He was a fuckling, after all, something that the entire office knew by now.

“Caffrey, I really don’t think I like where this is going,” Jones said, his eyes narrowing a little.

“*I* think,” Neal said, stepping forward until he was close enough to run his hand along the man’s lapel, “that you would be amazed how much you could like where this goes.” Yikes, that was a terrible line. Neal was seriously off his game, but it *had* been over four years since he’d had to worry about seducing someone.

“What confuses me,” Jones said, looking down at Neal’s hand on his jacket with open disdain, “is what makes a slave think it can tell me what I do or don’t like.” The words sounded more like a cheerful question than an angry statement, but they still made Neal pause, feeling a little nervous.

“I, uh…”

“You, uuuuuuuh,” Jones mimicked, shaking his head as he reached up and began to unknot his tie. “Oh, Caffrey. I really didn’t want to take it this far, but you’re not giving me much of a choice here, boy.”

He reached up, and Neal’s stomach dropped as the agent wrapped his tie around Neal’s face, effectively blinding him.

“Agent Jones, I—“

“Not interested in hearing it, Caffrey. Close your mouth and wait.” He paused, and then added. “Don’t worry, boy, I’m not going to hurt you.”

There was a shuffling sound then the door clicked, making Neal want to rip the blindfold from his face, but he restrained himself, despite the churning in his gut and the pounding of his heart.

Jones wasn’t going to hurt him, eh? Neal would believe that when he saw it.

A few minutes passed, though it felt like an eternity, then Neal felt a a rush of relief as the door opened again.

“Take him out through the back, to my car,” Jones voice said, his tone brisk. “Make sure no one sees him—Vice Collar doesn’t need anymore gossip. I’m going to let Burke know we’re taking a little trip. Understood?”

“Yes, Master Jones,” a soft voice that Neal was fairly sure belonged to Bob One said. “I will take him out through the back to the parking garage and place him in your car, sir.”

“Good.” There was a jangling sound, probably Jones handing over his keys, then Neal felt a hand on his upper arm.

“Come on, Neal,” Bob One said, the pity clear in his voice. “Walk with me, boy. You’re going for a ride with Master Jones.”

o o o

Peter looked up as Jones walked into his office, offering the agent a smile.

“Hey, Jones, what’s up?”

The man smiled back at him. “I just came to let you know that I’m taking Neal for a ride so we can have that little talk you wanted us to have.”

Peter frowned, brow furrowing a little. “A ride? What do you mean, a ride?”

Jones shrugged. “I think this conversation would be best had somewhere outside the office, someplace where things are a little clearer for him. I mean, it’s pretty obvious that he’s confused as hell about whether he’s your partner, your slave, or your damn boyfriend.”

Peter’s cheeks warmed slightly at the words, and he glared at his agent. “Ha ha. You’re really a riot, Clinton. What sort of conversation are you planning to have with him, exactly?” he questioned, feeling a little suspicious. He didn’t love the way Jones treated Neal, even if Neal seemed to think the man’s attitude was normal.

“I just want to talk to him about the little rough patches we keep having and ask him what he thinks can be done to improve the behavior. Maybe also take a few minutes to work on it.”

“Okay,” Peter said slowly. “That sounds like a good plan. How long do you think you’ll be gone? I actually have some, erm, plans of my own tonight.”

Jones raised an eyebrow at that, looking amused. “It shouldn’t take long, Boss. Neal really is a decent boy, not a rebel bone in his body. I feel like once we get the issue out there and address it head on instead of ducking around it, going back and forth, that we’ll be able to solve it.”

Peter nodded. “Okay, well try and have him back by six, okay?”

Jones smiled. “No problem. See you in a few, Burke.”

o o o

Neal sat in silence in what he was fairly sure was the backseat of Jones’ car. He hadn’t dared to look, even after Bob One had left him sitting in it all alone, so he couldn’t be totally certain. It was the most likely scenario, though.

They had been driving for at least ten or fifteen minutes, and Jones hadn’t spoken to Neal at all during that time. The conman in Neal really wanted to speak up, to say something to try and manipulate the man in the front seat into taking off this damn blindfold, but the slave in him was screaming to keep his mouth shut. Considering that Jones seemed to like slaves a lot more than he liked conmen, it was probably a good idea. And yet, keeping his mouth shut was so hard…

“So, Agent Jones, do you always use your tie as a blindfold when you kidnap people, or do you sometimes go for your pocket square?”

Oh, dear God, what the hell was wrong with him?

There was a silence, then Jones spoke up, his voice unreadable.

“You’re not a person, Caffrey, and I’m not kidnapping you. I’m trying to help you.”

Right. Because there was nothing like wrapping your tie around someone’s face and hauling them off to God-knows-where when you wanted to lend a hand.

The car slowed and made a turn, bouncing a little in that way cars do when they hit the dips leading into parking lots or up driveways.

The car turned again—into a parking space, if Neal had to make a guess—and Jones killed the engine, opening his door.

“Come on, boy,” Jones said as he opened the door to the backseat and unbuckled the seatbelt Bob One had put on for Neal. “Let’s go.”

Neal climbed carefully out of the car, feeling his way around as best he could. What he guessed was probably Jones’ hand clamped down on his arm once he was standing, and he felt himself being led across concrete. Yeah, he was pretty sure they were in a parking lot.

The warmth from the sun lessened as they crossed into shade, and there was a whooshing sound followed by a blast of cool air, then the floor beneath Neal’s feet went from rough concrete to slick tile.

“We don’t need any help, thank you,” Jones said, and Neal didn’t think the man was talking to him. He continued to walk, arm in arm with Jones, trying his best to ignore the way his stomach was churning. After a moment they came to a stop, and Neal nearly cried in relief as he felt Jones’ hands reach for the knot on the tie, tugging at it with his strong fingers.

All that relief was gone in a flash, though, as the silk fell away from Neal’s face and he found himself standing in hell.

“Welcome home, Caffrey,” Jones said in a soft voice, smiling kindly at the other man as he nodded at the SlaveMart aisles.

Neal whimpered, not caring if he sounded like a pitiful child. At that moment, he felt like a pitiful child.

“Shhh, it’s okay, boy,” Jones said, reaching an arm around Neal and pulling him close. “We’re just here to have a talk and do a little work on your behavior. I thought getting back to your roots would help put you in the right headspace.”

Neal looked sharply at Jones, swallowing hard. The man was talking like a trainer, and not the kind of bullshit trainer that Mozzie was. No, he was talking like someone who knew his protocol.

This was not good, not good at all. Because if Jones knew his protocol, then he also knew—

“The way you came on to me today was completely unacceptable, boy.”

—he also knew that.

“I don’t know where you learned those kind of seduction tactics,” Jones said, shaking his head, “but it was like being approached by a boy on a streetcorner.”

Neal’s face flamed, and he dropped his eyes.

“You have a problem, Caffrey. Your need to be in control is unhealthy. The fact that you’re actually surprised when your scheming and your attempts at manipulation blow up in your face shows how big the problem is,” Jones said, arm moving from Neal’s shoulders down his back. “I know that it’s difficult for you, remembering what your place is in life. I can’t even blame you for that—it’s obvious that outside influences have affected your ability to see yourself clearly.”

Yes, and those same outside influences would be flipping out if they knew just how hard Jones’ words were hitting home with Neal. Well, flipping out and hiding from government satellites.

“Tell me, Caffrey, if you wanted to put your product usage to work, then how should you have approached me today?” Jones asked, and Neal took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

“I should have asked permission to serve you, sir,” Neal said quietly. “And then left the decision to you.”

“And why do we ask politely instead of talking like a cheap whore?” Jones questioned.

“Because attempting to seduce a master who has not asked for sexual advances involves making a decision for your master, sir.”

“That’s right,” Jones said, nodding. “I know that you and Burke have a strange little relationship going on, but I’m not Agent Burke, and you need to learn to respect me.”

Neal looked up sharply. “I do respect you, Agent Jones,” he said. “I swear, I really do.”

“No, Caffrey,” Jones said quietly, “you don’t. Maybe what you have for me would be respect if you were a free man, but you’re not a free man. This attitude, it's going to change, though.” He removed his hand from Neal’s back and crossed his arms over his chest, staring Neal down, and the slave sort of felt like he wanted to melt into the ground. “Tell me, what do you think you can do to prove you respect me?”

The answer to that was easy enough, considering that the reason they were here at all is because Neal had decided to forget every piece of protocol he’d been trained in and try to run a version of his best con on Jones.

“If you would allow me, I would love to show my respect by serving you, sir,” Neal said, the words feeling heavy on his tongue. It was one thing to fuck somebody as a part of his plans, but to actually give up control like a good slave… Jones was right when he said that Neal had control issues. Hence his tendency to be a sassy, mouthy bitch.

“Do you really mean it, Caffrey?” Jones questioned, stepping forward and running his thumb over the slave’s lips. “Because I am only interested in doing this if your intention is truly to prove your respect for me and earn my appreciation. I am most definitely not interested in a repeat of Agent Johnson’s sick little game.” The man’s lip curled up in disgust. “He got what he deserved.”

Neal had to smile at that, though it was a little wobbly. “I agree, sir,” he said. “And yes, Agent Jones, I really do want to prove my respect for you.” Not necessarily by playing with the man’s dick, but it didn’t look like he had a lot of choice in what manner said respect would be shown.

Mozzie would tell him to wash the brainwashing bullshit out of his head and haul his butt out of there. Too bad Mozzie wasn’t actually here.

“Then I’m willing to let you,” Jones said in a gracious voice, like he knew he was doing Neal a huge favor. Just like a fucking trainer would.

“Thank you, sir,” Neal said, because it was expected of him, as Jones took him by the arm again and started leading him toward the back of the big box store.

Neal wasn’t sure where they were going, but he knew better than to ask. It was clear that Jones was very, *very* familiar with slave training protocol, though Neal had no idea how considering that the man hadn’t even realized that a criminal using slaves to produce goods would kill his stock when he was done.

They reached the men’s room, and Neal tried to hide his grimace. Oh goody, a chance to kneel on the floor of a public restroom, right next to the damn toilet. It was good to know that free men saw such a classy slave when they looked at him.

Apparently Neal didn’t do a very good job of hiding his disgust, because Jones chuckled, shaking his head. “See, this is exactly your problem, boy. Your ego is massive. You’re a sex slave—you’re not too good for a restroom. You’re not too good for *anywhere.* But you’ve built up this other person in your mind, this suave conman who’s better than everyone. Only he doesn’t actually exist.”

Neal couldn’t argue with the idea that his ego was massive, considering how badly it was bleeding right now.

They entered the restroom, bypassing the urinals and heading toward the handicap stall at the end. Jones opened the stall, gesturing for Neal to enter, and Neal obeyed, albeit it with a grimace.

Jones stepped in, shutting the door behind them, then he turned around, giving Neal a kind smile, the sort of smile trainers gave you when they wanted you to remember that they were doing you a favor.

“It’s okay, Caffrey, just let the feelings go,” he said, running a hand over Neal’s frowning mouth. Neal took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried his best to obey. He was getting what he wanted, what he had offered Jones to begin with. No, it wasn’t turning out the way he had planned, but it wasn’t his job to make plans. It was his job to do what he was told.

“On your knees, boy,” Jones commanded, and Neal opened his eyes, hoping his face looked somewhat less disgusted now. It was just a restroom—he would survive.

Neal knelt down on the floor, doing his best to ignore the stickiness of the tile, and moved into position with his arms behind his back and his knees spread.

“Good boy,” Jones said, his voice once again back to that no-nonsense voice as he stepped forward and ran his hand through Neal’s hair, softening the gel and loosening the curls. His other hand worked his trousers, slipping down the zipper. His erection was already starting to grow, and Neal sucked in a sharp breath as the man pulled his rather impressively sized cock from his pants.

Wow, that was *not* going to be fun to swallow. Was the man a porn star in his free time or something?

Jones palmed himself, dick rising slowly as the blood rushed between his legs, and Neal felt himself begin to rise as well, making his face go hot. Damn, damn, *damn* his training! The last thing he wanted was a hard on while he was on his knees next to a freaking toilet in the men’s room at SlaveMart, no less.

“You can’t say you don’t enjoy serving,” Jones said, and it took everything Neal had in him not to respond with a catty comment. “I can tell you’re embarrassed, but you don’t have to be. The fact that you like this doesn’t make me think less of you.”

Neal opened his mouth, about to tell Jones to take his bullshit training talk and go fuck himself, then he snapped it shut again, taking a deep, steadying breath. He didn’t have to be here. Jones had made it clear that this little scenario was about Neal proving that he was capable of submitting like he was supposed to so that they could fix their ‘relationship,’ as Peter had called it. Being a mouthy asshole would pretty much defeat the whole purpose.

Jones smiled, a look of pride on his face. “There’s a good boy. That’s it right there, Caffrey. Think before you speak, and remember who you are. Now, open your mouth.”

And they were off. Neal’s stomach turned as he obeyed, tilting his head up and opening his mouth as wide as he could.

Jones reached out with the hand that wasn’t working his dick, slipping his thumb into Neal’s mouth. Neal closed his lips around it, sucking, and the agent chuckled.

“You really are a fuckling.”

The words made Neal’s shoulders tense, fear washing over him, but Jones simply smiled at him again as he continued to suck the man’s thumb.

“It’s okay, boy. I have no problem with fucklings. I know some people use what you are as an excuse to hurt their slaves, but I think that’s bull. You have your use, just like all slaves.” He paused, pulling his thumb from Neal’s mouth and inspecting it with an amused look on his face. “Now, I wouldn’t let my dog kiss that mouth of yours knowing where it’s been, but I’m not going to punish you for what you are.”

And now they were starting on the 3Ds. Sadly, it was working, as Neal was indeed feeling the weird blend of humiliation and gratitude that came from Dehumanization with a touch of Dedication on the side. Mozzie would be so disappointed in him.

“I know you’re manipulating me,” Neal said quietly, raising his eyes to look at Jones. “That you’re knocking me down so you can pick me back up. I can tell you’ve trained slaves before.”

Jones smile grew even wider, and he laughed. “Oh, Caffrey. I told those idiot agents gossiping in the cafeteria today that being a fuckling didn’t make you stupid. They kept insisting that Burke was only using the consultation thing as an excuse to fuck you, but I said to them, ‘The slave’s smarter than you can even imagine.’ You’re smarter than those dumb asses, for sure—of course, that’s not saying much.”

Neal’s whole body stiffened, his face growing even hotter and his throat feeling like it was stuffed with cotton. Sure, he knew that he was the hot topic at the FBI right now, but to actually hear that a group of agents had been talking about him, had called him a stupid fuckling… It was horribly humiliating.

“There’s that ego again,” Jones said, and Neal swallowed hard. “What does it matter if most of the building thinks you’re a dumb whore? You’re not, but they don’t need to know that. You’re only a slave, so it doesn’t matter whether or not you’re stupid, right?”

Neal blinked back the wetness in his eyes, the words painfully true.

“I asked you a question, boy.”

Neal cleared his throat. “No, Master Jones, it doesn’t matter whether or not I’m stupid.”

Jones smiled. “That’s right!” he said, like Neal had taken the prize on The Price Is Right. “Now come on,” he said, directing his hard cock toward Neal’s face, running the shaft along the slave’s jawline, then slapping it lightly against Neal’s cheek before moving the head to his lips.

Neal obediently opened his mouth, taking the mushroom-like tip of the man’s cock between his lips and suckling at the warm flesh, running his tongue lightly across the slit.

Unsurprisingly, this fairly comfortable position didn’t last long. After a minute or so of this, Jones took Neal’s head firmly between his hands and angled it, tilting it in an uncomfortable way until Neal’s ear was almost touching his shoulder. Jones then thrust in, his cock pressing deep into Neal’s cheek, leaving it bulging outward. The man moved one hand down, applying several firm swats to the bulging cheek, letting out a muffled sound of pleasure as they came off as vibrations to the dick beneath the flesh.

Jones began to press in and out methodically, making Neal’s cheek bulge with each thrust, and Neal felt his already beaten and bruised ego take another stab. The slave dropped his eyes in embarrassment, locking them on Jones’ belt.

Neal shouldn’t be feeling this way, he knew that. He had no right to feel this way. But the fact that a man Neal worked with was using his mouth like a hole to be plundered, like there was no one worth considering attached, was painful.

“Eyes on me, boy,” Jones said in a patient but firm voice, and Neal obeyed, rolling his eyes up until they were locked on the man above him.

Despite the harshness of his thrusts, Jones was smiling down at Neal, and it actually made the slave feel a little better. Neal might be a hole to be plundered, but Jones did at least acknowledge that someone was attached.

“That’s a good boy,” Jones said, sounding like he was talking to his dog. “You’re doing so well, Caffrey.”

Sure, if your idea of ‘doing well’ was acting like a brainless SlaveMart castoff. Mozzie would say he’d gone backward a decade when he’d made the decision to mindlessly follow training instead of trying to manipulate his way out of the situation.

And yet, Jones’ words still made the little slave boy inside of him well up with pride.

The agent paused in his thrusting, and Neal moved to pull off of his cock, hoping to catch a full breath, but before he made it an inch, Jones caught him by the hair, holding him tight. Neal made a soft sound of pain as Jones shook his head.

“No,” he said in an amused voice, though his eyes were serious. “Peter may have no clue when it comes to your training, but I wasn’t born yesterday, Caffrey. No breaks. If you need to catch your breath, you can keep it here,” the man pulled his hips back until only the tip of his cock was left in Neal’s mouth.

If Neal had thought he was humiliated before, well, this was a whole new level. Before it had just been the conman in him, the catty criminal with an ego the size of Manhattan, who was embarrassed. Now the slave in him was humiliated as well. He’d tried to avoid his training, and Master Jones had caught him in the act, calling him out on his bad behavior. Trainer Joey would be furious to know that after all these years and all those flavored condoms, Neal was *still* trying to get away with slacking on blow jobs.

Neal spent a few moments taking careful breaths around Jones’ dick to ease his aching lungs, then pointedly slid down a little on the man’s cock.

Jones smiled at him. “We’re going deep now, Caffrey, so I need you to do something for me. I need you to set aside that ego, to put a bullet in the head of that make believe person you’ve created, relax, open your throat, and take it. Do you think you can do that, boy? Blink two times if you do.”

Neal blinked, though he was really busy wondering where the hell Jones had picked up slave protocol established by nationally renowned slave trainer Max Shoreman and whether or not it was a coincidence that Jones was using the protocol Shoreman had invented while Neal was running a con on him.

“Good boy, Caffrey,” Jones said, and then his very sizable shaft buried itself deep in Neal’s throat, the tip ramming against the back then slipping at an angle downward. Neal swallowed rapidly, trying unsuccessfully not to choke. His eyes began to water at the effort, his throat spasming like crazy as he gagged and his stomach turned. 

Spittle ran down his chin, and if Neal had been a free man, he probably would have wiped it off. However, considering that Jones obviously had experience training slaves, he resisted the urge. As embarrassing as it was for someone as picky about their appearance as he was to have drool running down his face, Neal’s trainers had always been very clear that sucking cock was a messy job and it wasn’t a slave’s place to clean themselves up.

Ugh, he hated sucking cock. Why the hell was he doing this again?

Jones’ dick pressed in even farther, thick and heavy down Neal’s throat, and though Neal fought it like crazy, in the end the man was just too big and Neal felt himself heave. He tried his best to swallow the sticky, acidic substance rising in his throat, but it was no use. His stomach turned, the vomit came up, and he released it onto Jones’ cock.

A wave of terror rolled over him, and it took everything Neal had not to curl up in a little ball and beg forgiveness. None of Neal’s trainers had taken well to him retching while he had cock in his throat, and the consequences were never pretty. Considering that Jones had made a point of telling him to relax and take it, Neal figured he wouldn’t be any happier than Trainer Joey had been when Neal was a kid.

Neal’s fear must have been written on his face, because Jones pulled all the way out, making a point not to touch his now sticky dick, and he ran a hand through Neal’s hair, the amusement clear on his face.

“Hey, it’s okay, boy. Go on, spit it out.” He nodded toward the toilet, and Neal looked at it in surprise. Usually his trainers made him choke it back down. That or they made him spit it out onto himself, which was even worse.

A little wary that this might be some kind of trick, Neal crawled on hands and knees to the toilet, leaning over it and spitting out what was left of the vomit. He glanced over at Jones, who still looked like he was on the edge of laughing, but Neal supposed that was better than being furious. Neal flushed the toilet then crawled back over to the agent, sitting back in position in front of him.

Jones rubbed the shaft of his cock along Neal’s cheeks, using the boy’s face to wipe the puke off his dick, grimacing a little as he did so.

“Sorry, Master Jones,” Neal said, the embarrassment starting to rise now that his fear had passed. “You’re kind of large.”

Not that being large was an excuse for puking all over a man’s dick.

Jones chuckled as he wiped the last of the sticky substance off on Neal’s jaw—thankfully he’d avoided the slave’s hair—and returned the tip of his cock to Neal’s mouth.

“It has nothing to do with my size, Caffrey, and I think you know that,” Jones said in a chastising voice. “You were listening to that ego of yours scream, and you fought it, up here.” Jones tapped the side of Neal’s forehead. “But you need to let that make believe person go. I mean, what’s the point in pretending? Let’s be honest: Would the world-wise, savvy, confident conman you made up be on his knees in a dirty bathroom with vomit on his cheeks, drooling all over himself with a man’s cock cradled in his mouth?”

Neal would have given anything to be allowed to look away right then.

“You were asked a question, boy.”

Neal’s brow furrowed up as he tried to figure out how, exactly, he could answer that question with Jones’ very fat cock in his mouth.

“You can still talk around it,” Jones said, answering Neal’s silent question, and Neal winced.

Yes, he technically could still talk around it. That didn’t make it any less embarrassing.

“So tell me. *Would* a man like the one you made up be on his knees in a dirty bathroom, covered in vomit, drooling everywhere, with a cock in his mouth?”

“No, Master Jones,” Neal said, though it sounded more like, “Nah, Mah-huh Hawn-uh-suh.”

“No, he definitely wouldn’t,” Jones agreed. “So we’re going to try this again, but this time I need the real you here with me. No fighting, no disgust; I want total acceptance. I want you to take what you’re given, to relax and embrace it.”

Seriously, the man should consider a fucking side business in slave training. Hell, from the way he talked, Neal wouldn’t be surprised to find out he *had* a side business in slave training, though he wasn’t sure Peter would be down with that from one of his agents.

The thought of Peter made a wave of guilt rush over Neal. He knew for damn sure Peter wouldn’t be down with what he was doing to improve his relationship with Jones. There was no way that Neal’s oh-so-naive master expected this to be the result of his little talk with Jones. Of course, Neal wouldn’t be going through this if he hadn’t been a mouthy, lying bitch to Jones to begin with. Then Jones wouldn’t feel the need to work on Neal’s ego at all.

Honestly, Jones was being fairly generous, though Peter probably wouldn’t get that. Jones was simply doing what he believed was the best method for the two of them to get along, exactly what Neal’s master had asked him to do. Compared to the kind of trainers you were usually sent to for acting up, Jones was exceptionally kind. Hell, he was kind compared to pretty much all of Neal’s trainers, which is why Neal would have to make certain that anything Peter learned about his session with Jones was explained in a way that made it clear that the things being done were to improve Neal’s attitude, not to be a sadistic prick. Considering how Peter had felt about Master Jack and his slaves, Neal had a feeling that the distinction was blurry to him.

Mozzie and Peter actually had a surprising amount in common.

“Okay, boy,” Jones said, breaking Neal out of his thoughts as he slid his cock deeper into Neal’s mouth. “Time to take it like the good boy I know you really are. Relax and take it.”

Neal really wished he could close his eyes to help him focus, but Jones had ordered that he look at him. He breathed in deeply through his nose as the man’s dick hit the back of his throat and started its downward slide, trying his hardest to force his throat open as much as possible. Neal’s stomach was turning and the inside of his throat was twitching, but he forced the sensations out of his mind, concentrating on swallowing the agent’s dick down farther and farther, just like he’d learned as a kid.

Neal’s nose bumped Jones’ belt buckle, little curls of pubic hair tickling his lips as he pressed his face against the man’s belly, the entire cock down his throat.

“Good boy,” Jones muttered, eyes squeezed shut with pleasure as he fumbled with Neal’s hair, pressing the slave’s face even harder into him, and Neal felt a flash of pride.

Man, Mozzie would be pissed off to realize that Neal still felt pride when a free man spoke to him like a dog that sits on command.

Being pressed against the agent’s belly was blocking Neal’s nasal passages, and his lungs were starting to burn. Jones’ big hands held him firmly in place, trapping the slave against his body, and as the clock ticked slowly on, Neal’s mind got more and more anxious. It started as a tickle on his neck that grew to a tingling throughout his body that transformed into a desperate, frantic need to yank his head back, to shove himself away, to fight the grip holding him down, to *breathe*.

Neal didn’t move.

Neal was starting to feel lightheaded, his whole body screaming at him to move, when the agent released him and he jerked back, gasping. Well, gasping as much as you can around someone’s cock, considering that he hadn’t forgotten the warning about not removing his mouth from Jones’ dick.

Neal’s shoulders were trembling slightly, and Jones massaged one of them, big hands slowly working at the muscles.

“You’re doing a good job, Caffrey,” Jones said, and Neal flinched at the sound of his last name. It was one thing for these free men to call him that while he was consulting on cases, but when his face was buried in the man’s crotch like this? It was a little disturbing. Sex toys didn’t go by their last names.

Without any warning, Jones shoved in deep, going from brushing Neal’s lips with the head of his cock to buried shaft deep down his throat. Jones’ hands holding the back of Neal’s head were the only thing that kept the slave’s head from snapping back with the force, and Neal began to gag as he choked it down, tilting his head up to ease the path and relaxing his throat as much as he could.

It was a good thing he did, too, because the second Neal’s nose hit his crotch, Jones pulled back out all the way then slammed in deep again, starting the whole process over.

All the way in, all the way out, then back in, then out, in and out… The rhythm was steady, but Neal couldn’t focus on that. All of his attention was going to keeping his gagging to a minimum and sucking the occasional breath through his nose. He made sure to suck as much air as he could when he got the chance, because every now and then Jones would reach out with the hand not holding Neal’s head steady and pinch his nose shut, plugging his airway for what seemed like eternity each time, but was probably no more than ten seconds or so.

Neal’s eyes were watering so much that there were tears running down his cheeks even though he wasn’t actually crying, and a mix of spit, vomit, and pre-cum was bubbling out of his mouth around Jones’ cock, dripping down his face.

Maybe Peter would be more interested in actually taking Neal for a test drive if he saw what sort of sex fucklings were used for. Neal doubted Mistress El was into this kind of thing, but he thought that Peter would probably enjoy it. He had yet to meet a man who didn’t enjoy pounding his face.

After several minutes of deep thrusting, Jones slowed his hips, leaning his body back against the stall door as he released the back of Neal’s head from his firm grip.

“Now you’re going to fuck your own face for me,” Jones said, not surprising Neal in the least. This whole encounter had followed the classic training methods practically to a tee, and having the slave do the work was next on the checklist. “But I don’t want to catch you half-assing it.” There was warning in his tone.

Considering how red Neal’s face was from the physical strain of deep throating, he hadn’t thought it could possibly get any hotter, but he was pretty sure that it increased a couple of shades at those words.

Jones was a good, fair, generous trainer, and he saw Neal as disrespectful enough to need a warning like that. Talk about humiliating.

Wow, Neal’s slave mentality was really going at full throttle today, which he supposed was the point of this escapade.

Neal shifted around until he was in a position where he could slam his mouth down on Jones’ cock, hard and fast like the man obviously wanted, without having to use his hands to hold it in place. It was disrespectful to touch your master’s cock with your hands when you were supposed to be using your mouth, and Neal did not need to give Jones any other reason to think of him as disrespectful.

Neal took a deep breath, filling his lungs as much as possible, then he dropped down onto the man’s shaft.

Neal sucked hard at the cock, cheeks hollowing, as he took the man in a way that was very uncomfortable for him but very pleasurable for Jones. Or Neal assumed that it was very pleasurable—he’d never actually had someone do it to him, but he’d never gotten any complaints, either. 

The constant gagging was more like background noise now, the burning in his throat old news, and Neal rode the man’s cock up and down in an almost violent motion. The movements were a little slower than Jones’ thrusting had been simply because of the intense amount of suction Neal was applying, but the ride itself was just as rough as it would have been if Jones had been the one in the driver’s seat. Trainer Joey would be proud.

Jones groaned above him, and Neal tasted the firsts hints of semen in his mouth as the agent wrapped his fingers in Neal’s curls, gripping them hard as he dragged the boy completely off his cock by his hair.

“That’s good,” Jones murmured, wrapping one hand around his shiny cock. Neal had a feeling this was going to be over soon.

Thank God.

Neal sat with his hands behind his back, cock still hard between his legs and his eyes locked on Jones. He held his mouth open as wide as he could, extending his tongue a little as the agent stroked his dick with one big hand, pointing it in the general direction of Neal’s face. It only took a few strokes, and the cum splattered across Neal’s face. Some of it landed in his mouth, some caught on his eyelashes, and some sprinkled across his cheeks, hot and sticky.

Jones moved forward a step, using his softening cock to scrape up the semen that had landed on Neal’s face then offering it to the slave to clean. Neal obeyed, leaning forward and sucking the salty substance off of the soft flesh, making a show of swallowing it.

“God, boy, you really *are* good,” Jones said as he bounced his dick on Neal’s tongue for a moment before pulling out and rubbing the shaft along Neal’s annoyingly sticky face.

“Thank you, sir,” Neal replied, because there wasn’t really anything else to say.

“Wait here,” Jones ordered as he slipped himself back into his pants. Neal obeyed, staying in position on the floor, hands still behind his back, as the man pushed his way out of the stall, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Neal’s stomach fluttered nervously. Jones wouldn’t just leave him here, would he?

A few seconds later the stall opened again and Jones reappeared, a handful of paper towels at his side. He knelt down on the floor beside the toilet and motioned for Neal to come to him.

Neal obeyed, crawling on hands and knees until he was in front of Jones, then sitting up and returning to position.

Jones took one of the paper towels and dipped it in the toilet, wringing it out before lifting it up to Neal’s face, gently wiping away the nasty mess of bodily fluids covering it. When he’d first entered this bathroom, Neal might have found the idea of having his face cleaned with water from a toilet both humiliating and disgusting, but at this point he simply acknowledged it as kindness. Jones didn’t have to clean him at all.

“Do you understand why I brought you here, Caffrey?” Jones questioned as he worked, and Neal frowned. 

“Gee, I don’t know, because you wanted a blow job, sir?” Neal said, then flinched at his own words. What the *fuck* was wrong with him? “I’m sorry, Master Jones,” he said in a rush. “I am a stupid, mouthy bitch.”

Jones laughed, shaking his head. “Yes, yes, you are, Caffrey. ‘Stupid, mouthy bitch’ could honestly be your sir-name. But getting you to acknowledge that is exactly why I brought you here. Like I said before, you have no respect for me—or you had no respect for me before this—but the reason you have no respect is because you are so full of yourself.”

He dipped the paper towel into the toilet bowl again, and Neal closed his eyes so the man could wash the semen off of his eyelashes.

“I’ve seen slaves like you before, Neal, back in my military days. Slaves who know they’re all that—and yes, I said ‘know,’ because you *are* all that. You’re smart, you’re talented, you’re capable, you’re strong. But because you know this, there is only one way to earn your respect, and that’s by regularly reminding you of who you are.”

Neal dropped his eyes. “I’m nobody,” he said softly, and Jones sighed, tipping his chin back up.

“You’re not nobody, Neal. You’re Burke’s consultant and companion. You’re that Moreau woman’s boytoy. You’re the little bald guy’s favorite pet. Hell, now you’re my cocksucker. There’s nothing wrong with being those things. What you’re *not* is a federal agent, a free conman, or even a real criminal. You’re a slave, and who you are is dependent on what the people you serve want you to do, not on what you want to be when you grow up.”

Neal swallowed down the lump in his already sore throat, nodding. “You’re right, Master Jones.”

The agent reached into his pocket, pulling out a travel size bottle of mouthwash. “For you.”

Neal reached out, taking it slowly. “Thank you, Master Jones.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, ruffling a hand in Neal’s hair as he dampened the paper towel again and wiped the last hints of stickiness from Neal’s lips. “I like you, boy. I didn’t at first, but you’re growing on me. I was willing to put up with your attitude, but Burke says that we need to get our relationship under control. I can’t pretend that your misbehavior doesn’t exist the way he does, so if we’re going to make this work then I can’t let it go anymore.”

Neal licked his lips nervously. “You might not want to mention the details to Master. I… I know that you’re right, but I don’t think he would understand. He is very strange about how people train their slaves. He might be angry.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I’m not worried about that right now. He’s never trained slaves, and you were headed down a messy path, boy. You needed a reminder that it’s not your job to play the free man, doing and saying whatever that big brain of yours tells you is best, even if it breaks all the rules. It’s your job to be obedient and accept when things don’t go the way you think they should with a good attitude and a smile on your face.”

“Yes, sir,” Neal agreed quietly.

Jones stroked his hand across Neal’s face, smiling at him. “I don’t believe in punishing slaves for crossing lines they didn’t know existed, so I’m going to let what happened today with the letter go. But you know now that if you ever try and manipulate me the way you did earlier today, lying and sneaking around with your liberationist friend, that I will call you out on your misbehavior and we *will* work on fixing the training you broke.”

“Yes, Master Jones,” Neal said, nodding rapidly as his stomach did a nervous dance. “I know that now.”

“You also know that if you continue to treat me with the kind of disrespect that you’ve shown me since you arrived, that I will call you out on that as well. Burke has zero interest in keeping up your training, but I have no problem being the enforcer.”

“Yes, sir,” Neal replied, heart beating a little too fast. “I promise that I will show you the proper respect in the future.” And he would. Jones was being more than fair, laying out his expectations and warning Neal of the consequences of not meeting them. Sure, he didn’t exactly adore the man, but he’d been nuts to go around lying to him and mouthing off and generally acting like the shittiest slave in existence when it was damn obvious Jones was more than willing to put Neal in his place.

Spending time with the oh-so-liberal Peter was almost as bad as being around Mozzie. Neal’s childhood trainers would weep to see him now.

Jones ruffled his hair again, giving him another smile. “You *are* a good boy, Neal. How Burke ever mistook you for a rebel, I don’t know. You say you’re willing to do your best, and that’s all I ask of slaves. I do think we need to try this again, though.” He gestured vaguely to Neal’s kneeling form. “In a few days you can offer yourself again. We’ll see if we can’t skip the vomiting and go straight to the acceptance instead of you spending ten minutes trying to fight something you should be eager to take.”

“Yes, Master Jones,” Neal agreed, cheeks reddening again. “I’m sorry that I threw up on you, sir.” His voice kind of sounded like a small child’s, but he didn’t give a shit anymore. He just wanted Jones to know he really was sorry, for real.

“It’s okay, Neal,” Jones said, waving off the words. “You didn’t do it on purpose, you were consciously trying to stop it. I’m not going to get angry at you over something you were trying your best not to do. Any trainers you had who did that should be training dogs, not slaves. All I expect is for you to try harder next time.”

Not only had someone taught Jones to train slaves, they’d taught him to train them well. That sort of reasonable attitude was not the kind of thing you saw with your average SlaveMart trainer.

Neal opened his mouth to ask the man where he’d learned to train slaves, then shut it again as it occurred to him that it was none of his business. If Jones wanted Neal to know, he would tell him. Otherwise, Neal had no right to even think about it.

“You finish cleaning up,” Jones said, nodding toward the toilet as he climbed to his feet. “I’ll meet you at the front of the store. Make sure you clean your mouth well. I meant it when I said that I wouldn’t let my dog kiss you, not knowing what your mouth does, but I don’t want to have to smell puke on the way back.”

“Wait,” Neal said as Jones started to exit the stall and the man paused, raising an eyebrow at Neal’s still kneeling form.

“Yes?”

“Thank you, Master Jones, for allowing me to be used for your pleasure.”

The words felt strange on his tongue, it had been so long since he said them. He sure as hell hadn’t thanked the asshole inmates for banging him—they didn’t follow protocol in their treatment of him, so why should he?—and he’d never really bothered with Mistress Kate, either. At the time he’d claimed that he saved the party lines for his con jobs, but the reality was that he didn’t respect her like he did other masters. It had been true, what he’d said to Mistress El, that she’d been his first time where he wasn’t afraid. But if you weren’t at least a little afraid of someone, how could you possibly respect them?

Jones gave him a kind smile. “You’re welcome, boy. Now clean up.”

Neal sat up as the stall door swung shut behind Jones, sighing as he moved over to the toilet and stuck his hands in it, splashing water on his face then using what was left to slick back the curls Jones had ruffled.

As a boy trained in the art of the con, Neal knew that he should be working out a plan on how to handle Agent Jones from now in a manner that would keep this sort of lesson from being repeated—of course, it was going to be repeated anyway thanks to his amazing purging demonstration, wasn’t it? He also knew that he should be working on a story to tell Peter if his master somehow found out about this, preferably one that would keep both him and Jones out of trouble. 

All Neal could really think at the moment, though, was how generous it was of Jones to give him something to rinse his mouth with other than toilet water. Well, that and how he needed to practice his deep throating skills so that the agent wouldn’t be disappointed the next time he hauled Neal to a public restroom and very politely ordered him to get on his knees and swallow his penis.

Neal tossed back a mouthful of the mouthwash, swishing it around for awhile before spitting it into the toilet.

Mozzie was going to throw an absolute *shit* fit when he heard about this.


	31. The 3Ds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Neal confesses to Mozzie, Steve Tabernacle trains slaves, and Peter learns the dirty details of using the 3Ds to train.

Neal stared at the phone clutched in his hands as he sat in the dim, musky closet, hoping against hope that the Bobs didn’t decide it was time to grab a bucket of Clorox. He really needed a few minutes of privacy. Not that he had long—the dark, silent ride back from SlaveMart had taken longer than expected when they hit rush hour, and it was almost time to head home for the night. Peter was probably looking for him right now.

Luckily, Neal doubted that inside the tiny janitor’s closet at the back of the conference room on the White Collar floor would be on Peter’s list of places to look.

Neal bit his lip, reaching up to brush his fingers across his aching throat. He should let this go. He’d disappointed enough people today, making stupid declarations of love about Kate to Mistress El and lying to Jones about where he was going at lunch and refusing to tell Peter where he got info on the bugs and puking all over Jones’ dick. He didn’t need to add anything else to the list.

Neal sighed and tapped a number into the phone, bringing it to his ear.

_”Hello, you’ve reached Vladimir Slave Trade, Inc. You birth them, we buy them, the Man fries them. Leave your name and number at the tone, and we’ll run a background check on you. BEEP.”_

“Hey,” Neal said, hoping he didn’t sound *quite* as guilty as he felt. “Just checking in. You can’t contact me for awhile, okay? I’ll call back another—“

There was a loud beep, and Mozzie’s voice came over the line.

“Neal, my main man, what’s up?”

“I’m not a man,” Neal replied automatically, making a face when he realized what he’d said. He could practically hear his friend rolling his eyes.

“Fine, fine, Neal, my suave slave, what’s up?”

Neal chuckled, then winced as the vibration made his throat scream. He brought his fingers back to his throat, dropping his eyes. “Actually,” he said quietly, “I called to apologize. To my trainer.”

Mozzie made a sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper. “Oh, God, Neal, please tell me you didn’t get jumped by that douche bag again?”

Neal made a sound of annoyance, scowling slightly at the idea. “Mozzie, I know that I’m fucked in the head, but even *I* wouldn’t try and apologize to *you* for that. I have no interest in hearing you sing a Shania Twain song about the chain of marital abuse.”

“Well, then what happened?” Mozzie asked. “And don’t try to back out of it and pretend nothing did. You sound like you have strep throat, and four hours ago you were fine.”

Neal sighed, the guilt rising up once more. God, he felt like a seventeen year old boy again, trying desperately to figure out how to please this strange, tiny little man who’d sent Neal’s violent master on the run and taken the slave under his wing.

“I broke my promise,” he said in a soft voice. “Again.”

There was a moment of silence then Mozzie sighed, but not like he was angry. More like he was frustrated. “You let somebody mind-fuck you.”

“Yeah,” Neal said, shame bubbling up inside as he stared at the ‘Wet Floor’ sign sitting a few feet away. Everything Mozzie had done for him, all that he’d risked to help him, and here was Neal, giving every bit of training he’d received from the man a big ‘fuck you.’ “I’m sorry, Moz.”

“What happened?”

Neal swallowed, then immediately regretted it. “One of the agents I work with… he’s not like Master. He has experience dealing with slaves. He and I, we were fighting a lot. You can probably guess why.”

“Because you have a personality, like a real live human being,” Mozzie stated promptly, and Neal laughed.

“Something like that. But Master Peter was sick of it, and he said it needed to stop. So Master Jones fixed it.”

“Why do I have a feeling that I’m not going to love his methods?” Mozzie said in a dry tone.

“He blindfolded me, put me in his car, drove me across town to a SlaveMart, and fucked my mouth in a public restroom,” Neal said softly.

There was a long silence, and when Mozzie spoke again his voice was very careful. “You know what I *want* to say right now, Neal. But I respect you as a person who can make his own decisions, so if suffering through that to make this man happy is honestly what you wanted to do, then I’m not going to tell you that you shouldn’t have done it. I just… I don’t think those kind of things are sane, much less necessary. You know that.”

“I know,” Neal said, voice growing more urgent. “But you don’t understand, Moz. I puked all over him, after he warned me to be careful, and he cleaned my face in the toilet, which I completely deserved after puking all over him, and I’m going to have to do it all again next week because I did such a bad job this time, throwing up on him like some kid who’s never given a blow job before.” Neal’s voice cracked slightly. “I can’t believe I puked on him. He wasn’t pissed at me, but I still can’t believe that I did it.”

The silence this time was even longer, and Neal was actually starting to wonder if his old trainer had gotten sick of listening to his shit and hung up on him when Mozzie spoke again.

“Neal, you *know* that’s the mind-fuck talking. You wouldn’t have… had an accident… if he had been more careful with you. And he didn’t have to…” The sound of deep breathing came over the phone, and Neal had a feeling that Mozzie was doing some of his tantric meditation junk. “He didn’t have to clean your face in a *toilet.* That’s what sinks are for. He did that to mess with your head, to make you feel like you should be grateful for something horribly degrading.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Neal said quietly. “It could have been way worse. He saw the letter you sent, and he knew it was in code. I lied to him about it, and he followed me to the park.”

“Shit,” Mozzie said, sounding really upset. “I knew I should have come up with a better cover. I’m sorry, Neal.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Moz. I’m the one who’s sorry. I swore to you that I would at least consider refusing to let people do stuff to humiliate me and mess with my head, and I didn’t. I asked him to do it, then I thanked him when he was done.” Neal shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m a lousy partner.”

“You’re not a lousy partner, Neal,” Mozzie said sharply. “You’re the best partner I’ve ever had. And like I said, I respect the choices you make. If letting some asshole play his 3D head games is what you need to do to feel safe at work, you don’t owe me an apology. I do feel like I should ask, though… You mentioned that he said this is going to happen again. Neal, are you going to let him do it again?”

Neal stayed silent, which would hopefully be answer enough. He really didn’t want to admit out loud to the man who had worked so hard to turn him into a thinking person that if Jones told him to get on his knees and *drink* from the fucking toilet right now, he’d do it.

“I take it this schmuck is pretty good at what he does,” Mozzie said quietly, and Neal nodded even though the man couldn’t see him through the phone.

“Yeah, he is.” Neal paused. “He said that I need to remember that I’m Master Peter’s consultant and Mistress Kate’s boy toy and your pet and his cocksucker and not anything else. And he… he told me that I made up the sassy conman in my head. He said that the fact that I would suck cock in the bathroom is proof that the other guy isn’t real, because he would never do that.”

Mozzie snorted. “Bullshit. You are who you are, Neal, and you didn’t ‘make yourself up’. That’s ridiculous. You *are* a sassy conman. You’re also the Suit’s consultant and Kate’s boyfriend and my best friend—though you’re nothing to that asshole, in my opinion. None of these things are mutually exclusive.”

Neal chuckled. “Well, technically I *am* his cocksucker, Moz. I did suck his cock. In the English language, that would make me the sucker of his cock, aka his cocksucker.”

Mozzie snorted again, obviously less than impressed by Neal’s logic.

Neal sighed, amusement fading away. “You really can’t contact me anymore, Moz.” He paused, the words surprisingly painful. “At least not at the FBI. If Master Jones finds out I’m in contact with you, he’ll call me out on it.” Neal’s stomach fluttered at the idea of the agent frowning down at him, disapproval on his face. “And I can’t go see you, not during work. I can’t leave the building again. If I break the rules after he specifically laid them out, he’ll take it as disrespect. I *can’t* disrespect him again—he’ll call me out on that, too.”

“Will he punish you?” Mozzie asked, sounding worried.

Neal licked his lips, frowning. “I don’t know. I… I don’t think so. But he’ll expect me to ask him for more training if I act out.”

“You mean he’ll expect you to do stuff that humiliates you to prove that you don’t think too much of yourself,” Mozzie said in a quiet voice.

“Exactly,” Neal said, though he had a feeling that Moz didn’t mean it in a positive way. “He was already so disappointed in me for the puking thing, I’m going to have to do that again. I don’t want any more lessons.”

“Dammit, Neal,” Mozzie snapped, “I *know* you don’t actually want to suck this jerk’s cock. Let him be disappointed. Let him cry a fucking river. While I’m sure that he thinks he’s doing you a favor—all of those sick slave trainer bastards seem to think of themselves as saints—we both know he’s not. You did his little training day thing, you suffered through the things he wanted you to suffer without fighting, you goddamn *thanked* him for it after.” Mozzie’s voice caught, and he paused for a second before continuing. “You don’t need to do it again. He is mind-fucking you. He is trying to make you feel like you have to dedicate your life to being what he wants you to be. For God’s sake, he’s not even your master!”

Neal sighed, running a hand through his still damp hair, making a small face when he thought about what water he’d slicked it back with. “I know, Mozzie,” he said quietly. “I’m not an idiot. I’ve studied the training manuals, too. I get that he’s fucking with my head. But I feel like if I don’t act how he wants me to, he’ll tell everybody the truth about me instead of just making me admit it to him.” His voice broke slightly. “As if me being a powerless piece of property is some kind of secret.”

“Oh, Neal,” Mozzie said, sounding a little irritated. “Just because some jerk says it doesn’t make it true. This guy may or may not believe it when he says that you’re less than human—God knows there are plenty of people in this fucked up world who believe that shit about slaves—but it’s *not* true, Neal. I know that, you know that, hell, your new master knows that.”

“I know I’m human,” Neal said quietly. “But I’m still powerless property. Master Jones is right about that. Me acting like I’m anything else is just me pretending to be something I’m not. Maybe Master Peter doesn’t care, but Master Jones isn’t going to let me get away with acting like I’m my own person.” He rubbed his forehead, his temples aching. “God, he really fucked with my head. And I feel like I should thank him for trying to help me.”

Mozzie sighed again. “Like I said, you have to do what you have to do. If it hurts less to accept the shit this asshole deals out to you than it does to try and resist it, then so be it. But at least think about fighting, Neal. Or at least not taking absolutely anything he wants to dish out. You say you called to apologize, but we both know you really called because you were in pain and you needed to talk to somebody.” Mozzie took a deep breath. “I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but I think you should tell the Suit.”

“No!” Neal snapped, a little louder than he intended. He glanced nervously toward the door, clearing his throat. “I mean, I really don’t want to do that. Master Peter wouldn’t understand. He doesn’t realize that this is how slaves are *supposed* to be trained. He would think it’s like what happened with the guy in the closet, and I really, honestly don’t want to get Master Jones in trouble. He only did what I would have done if I was a trainer with a problem slave like me. It wasn’t pleasant, but I… I know why he did it. It wasn’t like when the warden was strapping me down for revenge. Master Jones is trying to fix me.”

“Neal, I get that you think that this Jones guy is torturing you for your own good, but I still think you should tell the Suit,” Mozzie said. “You can make it super clear that you’re grateful for it or whatever. Hell, you can make him promise not to do anything to precious Asshole Jones before telling him for all I care. But the truth is, he’s going to find out eventually. You all work in the same damn office! That agent is his employee. Eventually, he *will* figure it out, and somehow I think it will be a lot better coming from you right after the fact than six months later written in the office gossip rag.”

Neal sat in silence, the reality of Moz’s words hitting him hard. It was true; there was no way Peter would be able to miss the way things had changed between Neal and Jones, not if Neal treated the man like he wanted to be treated. And somehow Neal did *not* think Peter would take well to Neal hiding a sexual relationship with one of his agents for a second time.

And here he’d thought the metaphorical shit had been high before. God, now he was freaking drowning in it.

“That… is a good point,” Neal said, chewing nervously on the inside of his cheek. It tasted like mouthwash. “I’ll think about it. Believe it or not, being trained is not actually one of my favorite things to talk about.”

“Hey, are you saying that my two day seminar on posing as a free man isn’t one of your favorite things to reminisce about?” Mozzie said, feigning annoyance, and Neal chuckled.

“Your training is definitely the exception, Trainer… what was the ridiculous alias you gave to Master? Havensworth?”

“Haversham,” Mozzie replied. “And you’re one to talk, Trainer *Tabernacle*.”

Neal sniffed. “At least I actually trained some slaves at my internship. I would bet my stash that you hid in the dorms browsing those weird X-Files fanfiction forums the entire time.”

“Oh, Steve, you know me so well.”

o o o

“Hello, how can I help you?” the young woman at the counter asked, sort of tossing her hair over her shoulder as she smiled up at him.

Neal stared pointedly past her, his blue eyes locked on the cheap reproduction of Van Gogh’s ‘Irises’ hanging on the wall behind her.

The woman frowned. “Excuse me… Can I help you?”

Neal flinched as he felt a hand on his, fear shooting through him. Why was she touching him? Did she know he was a slave?

Free men didn’t touch each other like this. Touching someone you didn’t know was considered rude in free society, and a little weird, too. Or so Mozzie had claimed during the two-day crash course on free men he’d entitled ‘How to Be a Slave to THE Man Instead of a Slave to A Man 101.’

Personally, Neal found the title to be a bit clunky, but who was he to argue? He was only a slave.

Except he wasn’t, was he? Not today, anyway.

The girl behind the counter cocked her head a little, ever so slightly wagging her eyebrows at him as her fingertips stroked his knuckles. Suddenly it hit Neal like a singletail to the back. She was flirting with him. A free woman was honest-to-God flirting with him. And if he wasn’t interested—which he definitely wasn’t—then all he had to do was…

Neal pulled back his hand, sticking it in his pocket, to the girl’s obvious disappointed. It was strange, the idea that he could disappoint someone like that. After all, a slave wouldn’t be able to pull away. ‘No’ wasn’t in their vocabulary.

Time to get into character. Neal cleared his throat. “The name’s Steve Tabernacle, CST in training? I have a meeting with Roger Evans at three.”

‘M’am,’ he added silently in an attempt to ease the bad taste in his mouth. It was mannerless of him to address a free woman this way. Proper etiquette was the only thing that separated slaves from animals, after all.

Neal particularly prided himself on his treatment of mistresses and free women. Many slaves chose to basically ignore them, focusing on the generally more aggressive male masters who usually wielded the whips, but Neal didn’t believe that was right. Free women were just as important as free men.

“Oh, right, Mr. Tabernacle,” the woman said, still looking a little down. Apparently she’d really hoped he’d be interested in… well, whatever free women wanted from free men. “It looks like he’s in the office now. You can go ahead and see him, first door on the left.”

“Thank you ever so much, madam,” Neal said, flashing her his best smile, and her cheeks turned red as she batted her lashes back at him. “Have a wonderful day.”

He took off down the hall, stopping before the first office. A fake gold name plaque declared it to be the workplace of Dr. Roger Evans, Certified Slave Trainer.

Neal took a deep breath, trying to calm his tingling nerves. He couldn’t even imagine what it was going to be like, talking to a CST like he was an actual person instead of a slave. If Neal wasn’t here to con the man, steal the registration numbers of every slave trained in the past ten years, and leave the Idaho Slave Training Center’s databases in shambles, he’d feel honored.

Okay, enough stalling. 

Neal knocked three times then took a step back, forcing himself to keep his hands at his side instead of in their more comfortable position behind his back. The door opened, revealing a tall man with a body type similar to Gumby, a salt-n-pepper beard, and a suit that had probably come from a clearance rack at Target. Thankfully Neal had been well trained in hiding his disgust. He could lick unwashed balls, kiss fat old men’s assholes, and refrain from commenting on *just* how ugly that Charlie Brown tie was, all with a smile on his face.

Seriously, some people had no taste.

“Ah, you must be Trainer Tabernacle,” Evans said as he extended his hand, a big smile spreading across his face. “It’s fantastic to finally meet you—your resume was truly mind-blowing.”

o o o

Neal schooled his features into an emotionless mask as he watched Trainer Owen drag the half-conscious slave boy into the training room by his leg. The kid’s brown eyes blinked up at them in confusion, his ability to process his surroundings severely damaged by over seventy-two hours in a punishment box.

The slave smelled like shit, which was no surprise since Owen had refused to let the boy out to use the toilet; and his arms and legs were purple, probably from lack of blood flow, being all folded up in the tiny box.

“What do you have to say for yourself now, Slave?” the young trainer demanded, and Neal had to work pretty hard not to roll his eyes.

Each of the trainees in his class at the Idaho STC had received their very own “problem slave” to cure, and at over a month into the program, Neal’s boy was coming along very well, if he did say so himself. Unfortunately for all of the so-called problem slaves who *weren’t* assigned to Neal, not a single one of the rest of the idiots making up this program had a clue how to effectively train a slave. So instead they skipped the actual training and went straight to the torture.

“Trainer Steve, I have brought the file you requested, sir,” a very soft voice said, and Neal looked over at his “problem slave.”

The boy was unusually well muscled for fourteen, with strong arms and powerful thighs. He was almost as tall as Neal and twice as wide, built like a very attractive linebacker. His skin was a very light brown tone that was obviously a mixture of African American and Caucasian descent, and his curly black hair was cropped close to the head. 

He was standing a few feet from Neal, carefully positioned with his feet spread enough to frame his genitals, his head bowed, and his arms extended, file between his hands.

“Good boy,” Neal said as he took the file from the kid. In his head he called the boy Mocha, for the beautiful shade of his skin, though the slaves at this center were given only numbers, not names.

Mocha nodded his head in gratitude, eyes lowered respectfully as he moved his hands behind his back, taking up Neal’s favored position for idle times.

Neal opened the folder, frowning as he flipped through it. It seemed his intuition had been correct: Owen’s slave *was* listed as having below average intelligence, which by free men’s standards basically meant he was mentally retarded.

Neal sighed, rubbing at his forehead. He should really just walk out. It was none of his business what Owen did with his slave. Neal was here to run a con with Mozzie, not to rescue dumb slaves from their even dumber trainers. He had to fuck Mocha with Evans tonight, which was always super weird—he was used to being in the middle when three were involved, not being one of the ends—and tomorrow he had to slip into Security and set the cameras in the office block on loop so Mozzie could hack Evans’ computer and release the virus that would allow them to access the ISTC’s slave database from the computer in Neal’s dorm. He didn’t have time to be playing the superhero.

The slave let out a whine that sounded a lot like a dying goose as Owen shoved a fist up the kid’s ass. As in he literally took his hand and stuffed it up the poor boy’s butthole.

Damn it.

“Owen, my man, how’s it hanging?” Neal called out with a grin, tossing the file at Mocha and heading off across the training room. “Having to deal with the trouble maker again, I see. What did the bitch do this time?”

Thankfully, Owen was easily distracted, and he removed his hand from the kid’s rear so he could stand up and talk to his good buddy ‘Steve.’

“Oh man, you won’t believe it! The little shit asked me why my dick don’t get hard when I sit on the floor. Like I can’t get it up or something!” He grabbed his crotch pointedly. “I have *no* problem getting it up, that’s for sure!”

Mocha made a sound that might have been a choked laugh, and Neal shot the slave a warning glance. They would have to have a talk about laughing at Master’s friends later.

“Yeah, that’s crazy,” Neal agreed, though what he really wanted to do was shake some sense into the moron. The slave was a fuckling who’d been trained to pop into action when kneeling since the day his balls first saw light. He probably didn’t even remember he’d been trained to do it and thought it was the normal reaction. “Did he beg forgiveness?”

“Oh, he begged. And begged. And begged. Now he’s going to beg some more!”

The Marquis de Sade would be so proud.

“You definitely know how to make them beg,” Neal said with a laugh. He paused, making sure to keep his voice casual. “You know, Jessica was saying that to me just this morning. She said that nobody makes them beg like Owen.”

Owen stiffened, everything about him perking up at the mention of their class’ only female trainee—including the part of him that his slave had questioned. “Jessica mentioned me?”

“Yeah,” Neal said. “I think she has a thing for you, man.”

“Really?” Owen said, a grin spreading across his face. “You know I would love to tap that.”

“Who wouldn’t?” Neal replied. “You know, Evans put her on exercise duty to punish her for that whole ‘slipping armor into Trainer Micah’s food then drawing a penis on his cheek’ incident. She’s out on the field right now, watching the slaves run. I bet she’s bored as hell.”

“Hm,” Owen said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Well, it would be ‘thoughtfully’ were he capable of actual thought, anyway. “Maybe I should give her some company.”

“I bet she’d like that,” Neal said with a nod.

Owen frowned, glancing back at his slave. “But I still have to deal with this idiot.”

“I can handle it if you want,” Neal said with a shrug. “I’m pretty good with a whip, aren’t I, boy?”

Mocha flinched ever so slightly, but his voice was gentle and quiet, just like Neal—well, Steve—had taught him. “Yes, Trainer Steve, you are very good with a whip, sir.”

“Thanks, man, you are a saint!” Owen said, miming punching Neal in the shoulder. “Check you later, yeah?”

“For sure,” Neal said as Owen practically shot out of the room. He turned, eyeing the boy on the floor. Now all he had to do was deal with this one. A few stripes should be enough to get Owen off the poor kid’s back.

Neal snapped his fingers, and Mocha appeared at his side like magic. “Slave, bring me my lucky whip.”

o o o

Neal took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he stared at the slave on the end of the leash. Tonight was Mocha’s graduation, time for Neal to show off the boy’s training and prove that he was reformed enough to make a good name for the Idaho STC when he returned to his master.

When Neal had first gotten the boy three months ago, the kid had been a mess. He’d been loud and disrespectful and distracted by absolutely everything. According to his product usage, Mocha was a labor slave, the kind usually used for construction, but from his attitude Neal could tell that he was used primarily for sex. He had all the issues of a fuckling with none of the training.

His master had loaned him to the ISTC’s internship program with the understanding that if the boy couldn’t be rehabilitated, he would be put down. Couldn’t have word getting around that the center couldn’t fix their slaves, after all.

Owen’s slave had been euthanized last week. The kid’s low IQ combined with Owen’s total inability to train worth a damn had resulted in a final show that was more like a nightmare than a graduation.

“Are you ready, boy?” Neal asked quietly, reaching down to pet his kneeling slave. Treating it like an animal, one of the top methods of Dehumanization.

“Yes, Trainer Steve,” the boy said softly, eyes lowered in respect. “Your slave is ready, sir.”

“Good boy,” Neal said as he moved off toward the evaluation room, Mocha following on his hands and knees.

Neal’s stomach turned. This was wrong, it really was. He was a slave himself; Mocha shouldn’t be submitting to him like this. But he couldn’t think like that. Mocha’s life depended on Neal’s ability to fake being a free man and a trainer, so thoughts like that needed to be firmly pushed from his mind.

Neal nodded to the small gathering of Certified Slave Trainers as he entered the room, flashing the group a big smile. Beyond the audience, the room was mostly empty, the only furniture a low table in the middle and a display case full of various sex toys and bondage implements against one wall.

Neal led Mocha to the center of the room, coming to a stop in front of the table and turning to face the CSTs.

“Hello, everyone, I hope you’re all having a fantastic day,” Neal said, wearing his best grin and talking in that ‘cool, confident, king of the world’ voice they all seemed to love. “As you know, I’m CST trainee Steve Tabernacle, and this is Slave 237C, property of Master Randolf Eisenburg. Slave, stand and display yourself.”

Mocha obeyed, climbing to his feet in that cute, awkward way he had and taking up position with his hands behind his back, displaying his well muscled body and hairless genitalia for the room to see.

“The slave is male, fourteen years of age, bred at SlaveMart. Product Usage, construction, manual labor. Additional Usage, sexual entertainment. The slave was loaned to the center for severe behavioral problems. Slave, summarize your behavior issues for the Trainers.”

Mocha swallowed hard, obviously nervous, but his eyes remained respectfully lowered, the pleasant smile on his face not wavering. “This slave’s behavioral issues include but are not limited to cursing in the presence of a free man, refusing to perform oral intercourse on command, calling its master by his given name, and stealing food from its master’s cabinets.”

“Good boy,” Neal said, smiling at him. “Now kneel.”

Mocha immediately got down on his knees, sitting with his legs apart and arms behind his back. He didn’t have a sexual reaction to kneeling the way that a trained fuckling would, but he immediately opened his mouth and extended his tongue, tipping his face upward. Considering that one of the boy’s issues was his refusal to perform oral intercourse, Neal wanted to make certain everyone knew this issue was resolved.

While Neal had managed to fuck the boy when it had been absolutely necessary to keep up the con, topping was not his greatest skill and he wasn’t comfortable with the idea of having oral sex performed on him at all, so he went over to the display case and removed a rather impressively sized dildo.

“What do you say, Slave?” he asked as he returned to the table, running the bright purple toy across the boy’s face.

“Will you please take pleasure in me, Trainer Steve?”

“Good boy,” Neal murmured as he slid the dildo into the slave’s mouth, wasting no time pressing it in deeply. Mocha closed his eyes, making soft gagging noises, his brow wrinkled up in concentration as Neal worked the thing in deep, slid it gently out, then worked it back in.

Mocha’s first week at the center, this had been like torture. Neal understood completely why the poor kid had refused to perform oral sex on command: he’d had absolutely no idea how to do it without gagging and choking and eventually vomiting all over himself. 

The kid’s throat had been horribly sensitive—he’d start to gag with less than two inches in there—and his strength had worked against him, making it all too easy to shove away from the man trying to insert himself. Eventually, Neal had to strap him to a table to keep him from struggling so that he could work on desensitizing him as gently as possible.

“Thank you, Trainer Steve,” Mocha said, and Neal smiled at him, pushing away that aching sadness he felt as he imagined this sweet boy going back to that sonofabitch master of his.

“You’re welcome, pet.” He ruffled the boy’s hair and pulled the ball he used for Dehumanization from his pocket. “Fetch!” He tossed it and the boy crawled after it on hands and knees, picking it up with his mouth and returning it to Neal. The CSTs murmured in appreciation. Neal had a feeling his slave was one of the few in the trainee’s group that did *anything* on command other than whimper and cry.

“You are a good boy,” Neal said, leaning down and kissing the kid on the forehead.

“Thank you, Trainer Steve,” Mocha said again, giving him a big smile that made Neal want to wrap the kid up in his arms.

Neal tossed the ball again, and Mocha crawled after it once more, making Neal’s lip turn up slightly in distaste. He hated Dehumanization. Slaves might be animals, but they had some level of intelligence. You didn’t have to treat them like literal dogs.

He should probably be thankful these jerks didn’t want him to make Mocha shit in the grass outside.

“Who is my good pet?” Neal questioned as he took the ball from the boy’s mouth.

“I am, Trainer,” Mocha replied, his cheeks darkening slightly with embarrassment. It had taken Neal a long time to train the boy to answer to ‘pet.’ He’d spent weeks sitting in front of Mocha’s cage, reminding the boy over and over again that he was an animal and as an animal he should be *happy* that he was someone’s pet because people loved their pets.

Once he had finally started referring to himself as the pet, Neal had moved on to the fetching thing. That had taken even longer, almost the entire three months.

Neal had held him naked in his arms for hours, telling him over and over again how he couldn’t wait to see his pet fetch and what a proud owner he would be when his pet was a good boy, along with the occasional reminder of what a disappointment he was for refusing to be a good dog. 

Eventually, there came a point where Neal could tell the kid’s mind was so overwhelmed by the constant flood of Dehumanization that he was starting to think that maybe he *was* a dog. That was the breaking point, and that night Mocha got down on his hands and knees and chased the ball.

After that, it was easy. Mocha’s sense of self was twisted, and he’d basically become an extension of Neal, doing his best to be whoever or whatever his trainer asked him to be.

God bless the 3Ds. Or maybe ‘devil bless’ was a better way to put it.

o o o

The alarm blasted, alerting all and sundry that some serious criminal activity was going down at the ISTC’s main training building.

That was perfectly fine with Neal, considering that he and Mozzie were across the center, almost a mile a way, safe and sound within the empty dormitories.

“That is awesome,” Neal said as he bent over Mozzie’s shoulder, inspecting the computer screen. His trainer laughed, grinning at him.

“Can you imagine the look on Evans’ face when he realizes that every single slave in his database is now a perfect match for Adolf Hitler?” Mozzie held up his hand and Neal obediently slapped it, as weird as the whole ‘high five’-ing thing seemed to him. Free men sure liked their hand slapping, though.

“Of course, the real tears aren’t going to flow until he checks the safe and realizes he’s missing these.” Neal held up the bag containing the solid gold shackles loaned to the State Center by Kennel Corp for the upcoming training demonstration.

Mozzie smirked. “Someone’s definitely going to be out of the job after this one. Three months you spent *living* at his training center, and he didn’t have a clue.”

“You think they’ll figure out I was a slave the whole time?” Neal questioned as Mozzie wiped the memory of the computer and grabbed his gear bag off the floor.

“Considering that they’re total idiots? Probably not.” He laughed. “Maybe we should send them a postcard—“

“Trainer Steve?”

Mozzie yelped and Neal jumped as a soft voice came out of nowhere. Except voices didn’t come out of nowhere, did they?

Neal frowned as he walked over to the closet, yanking the door open. His eyes widened as he saw Mocha, tied hand to foot, sitting on the floor.

“Who the hell is that?” Mozzie said frantically, throwing his bag over his shoulder and heading toward the door. “I thought you said all of the trainees were at that stupid wet t-shirt party!”

“They are,” Neal said, holding up his hands in an attempt to get his trainer to relax. “This the slave I’ve been training.” Neal frowned. “Though why the hell he’s tied up in my closet, I don’t know.”

Mocha opened his mouth, then shut it again, dropping his eyes respectfully, and Neal automatically said, “Good boy,” making Mozzie roll his eyes.

“Why are you in my closet, boy?”

“Trainer Owen put me in here, sir. I think it was supposed to be a prank.”

“Ah, yeah, that’s Owen for you,” Neal muttered. “A laugh a minute.”

“Neal, hurry,” Mozzie said urgently, making Mocha look to him in confusion.

“Kneel where, sir?”

“No, I was talking to—well, it doesn’t matter. We’ve got to go,” Mozzie said, and Neal nodded. 

“Okay, just give me a second.” He knelt down in front of Mocha, reaching out and yanking the knots around his wrists and ankles loose.

“Trainer Steve, what’s happening?” Mocha asked in a slightly frightened voice, not that Neal could blame him for being scared.

Neal licked his lips and took a deep breath, not entirely sure what to say. He couldn’t tell the kid too much—that would put the poor boy at risk. But to simply disappear without a word seemed cruel.

“Mocha, I’m not really a trainer.”

“Mocha?” the boy questioned, looking more confused by the second.

Neal winced. “Uh, yeah, that’s what I called you in my head. I’m not a trainer, in fact, I’m kind of a slave. Not a good slave, obviously. He held up the duffle bag, unzipping it just enough for the boy to catch a glimpse of the gold shackles inside. “It was a con job. We came to steal registration numbers to make fake identities. And to steal these.”

Mocha’s eyes went wide. “I don’t understand, sir. How can you be a slave? You’re my trainer.”

Neal sighed, reaching out and laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to explain. We have to go now before the police figure out the security footage showing robbers in the training center is a loop. I’m really sorry for all the tough training. I didn’t enjoy it, I swear. But I didn’t want them to put you down, either. You’re a good boy, were a good boy before you came to this stupid center. It’s your master who is a jerk. Unfortunately, if you want to survive living with jerks, you have to learn to serve in ways you don’t like.” He leaned forward, placing a kiss on the boy’s lips. “Be a good boy, Mocha. I care about you, and I want you to be safe.”

“Neal, we really do have to go,” Mozzie said, and Neal nodded, giving the confused looking young slave a sad smile.

“Goodbye, pet,” he said.

“Goodbye, Trainer,” Mocha whispered back as Neal shouldered his duffle and followed Mozzie out into the night.

o o o

Peter glanced over at Neal, frowning. The boy hadn’t said a word since they left the building, and he just seemed… subdued, was a good word for it, or preoccupied, maybe. He was staring straight ahead out the windshield, but not like he was watching the cars or the passing buildings. No, it was more like he was watching something that wasn’t actually there.

“Peter, I have something I want to talk to you about.”

Peter jerked, glancing over at the slave beside him in surprise. Had Neal actually called him by his given name? From the very pained look on the boy’s face, Peter was fairly certain he hadn’t imagined it.

“Of course,” he said, hoping he sounded light hearted and relaxed and *not* like his heart was pounding a thousand times a second. What would his wife say at a time like this? Hm… How about… “Whatever you want to talk about, I’m here to listen, Neal.” There, that totally sounded like something El would say.

Neal made a non-committal noise, still staring straight ahead. “I think we can both agree that the past week has revealed that you’re a little… naive when it comes to the normal lives of slaves.”

As much as it hurt his ego, being the top Vice Collar agent and all, Peter couldn’t argue with that. He was naive as hell, if the definition of ‘naive’ was having no clue your Average Joe tortured his slaves and considered it perfectly normal.

“Master, do you know Steve Tabernacle?”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up at the question, and he glanced at the slave out of the corner of his eye. “He’s one of your aliases. One of your better ones, in my opinion. Playboy, entrepreneur,” he paused, maybe a little dramatically, “free man.”

Neal nodded slowly, and for once he didn’t bother with his ‘allegedly’ joke. “Yeah. And also a slave trainer.”

Peter’s mouth dropped open, the idea that Neal had created an alias who trained his fellow slaves kind of blowing his mind. “You’re kidding?”

“No, Master,” he said. “I worked as an intern at a state Slave Training Center for three months. In that time I assisted in training dozens of slaves and supervised the training of one. I was the only decent trainer in the damn program. Mostly because I was the only one who actually *understood* the 3Ds.”

Peter’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “You mean that crap they train kids with? What was it, Dehumanization, Degrading, and Distance?”

Neal made an amused sound. “Dehumanization, Distancing, and Dedication. But it’s not only used for kids. The 3Ds are the basis of the entire theory behind slave training.” He paused. “Master, I would like to share some things with you, things that I think you would like to know, if only so you don’t waste all your time being completely shocked and appalled every time you meet a slave. But based on how freaked out you’ve gotten every time you’ve walked in on any sort of training… It’s not my place to ask you *not* to freak out at all, but could you possibly try and hold it in until I’m finished explaining everything I would like to try and tell you?”

Peter looked away from traffic long enough to catch the almost desperate look on Neal’s face.

What the hell was going on here? Please dear Lord, don’t let them be headed back down the rabbit hole *again.*

“Sure Neal,” Peter said, though he had a feeling this wasn’t going to be an easy task. Not if the things Neal had to say now were as disturbing as the stuff he’d shared in the past. But getting upset wouldn’t help Neal, that’s for certain. “I can do that.”

“Thank you, Master. I’m grateful for your patience.”

Again with the almost ritualistic words. That was so incredibly weird.

Neal sighed. “Usually I wouldn’t come right out and say this, but we both know it’s no secret that I’ve spent a lot of time impersonating free men. I’ve also spent a lot of time living with a man who considered me, Neal Caffrey, to be the equivalent of a free man and treated me that way.”

That Mozzie fellow, Peter had no doubt. Honestly, he liked the guy more and more every day, even if he was a total weirdo.

“I have a lot of experience and general knowledge that most slaves don’t. Most slaves can’t even count change, much less use a credit card. I’ve gone on dates and driven cars and ordered at McDonald’s. I’ve flown on airplanes and gotten my cuticles trimmed at salons and punched a guy in the face at a bar. Most slaves never do any of these things.”

Peter nodded. He wasn’t surprised in the least that Neal had done any of those things. “None of that surprises me, Neal. Anyone who spends any amount of time with you versus some poor kid like Tommy the Elevator Boy can tell you’re a lot more world-wise.”

“Exactly,” Neal said. “That’s sort of my point. Because I have all of these experiences, not to mention an above average intelligence and an ego the size of Antarctica, I have a difficult time following the social norms for slaves.”

“The social norms?” Peter asked, not quite sure what that even meant.

“Slaves are soft spoken,” Neal said. “Slaves are obedient and slaves don’t ask questions. Slaves accept whatever they are given without thinking about it, slaves never distrust authority, and slaves are loyal even when it doesn’t seem like there’s much worth being loyal to.”

“So slaves are robots,” Peter said dryly, making Neal chuckle.

“Actually, Master, they’re really not. Those traits—none of which I possess in great amounts—tend to make them very nice people. Of course, that’s not all that surprising since the majority of slaves who *aren’t* nice people are put down at a young age, leaving only the most obedient and loyal ones. It doesn’t come magically, though. They are trained to be that way. That’s where the 3Ds come in.”

“How does torturing someone make them loyal and obedient?” Peter asked, honestly curious how tactics meant to rip a person’s soul apart could result in *anything* positive.

“Steve Tabernacle would tell you that if you want to make it so someone won’t even think about resistance or rebellion, you need to place them in psychologically stressful situations that break down their sense of self, to twist their perception of the world around them until they admit you were right when you said they were less than human, then to manipulate their emotions until they start to feel gratitude for the things you ‘ve done to break them down.”

Peter shook his head, feeling sick to his stomach. “I do not see how doing those things to people could possibly result in anything good at all.”

Neal bit his lip. “I know, Master. I can tell you don’t understand from how angry you were about the whole ‘killing Mr. T-Rex’ thing and how horrified you were when Lula gagged Root Beer. But in both of those instances we were hurting them so they wouldn’t end up dead later.”

Peter’s throat felt dry. “That’s hard for me to accept. Cruelty is cruelty in my mind. Hurting someone for their own good is not an excuse.”

“Maybe not with free men,” Neal countered. “But slaves don’t have the kind of protections that free men do. So sometimes things have to be done for their own good, even if it’s painful. I did things that would probably make you furious when I trained that boy as Steve. I literally made him my dog. But doing that saved him from euthanasia and made him able to survive life with his master.”

“You made him… your dog?” Peter said, not sure what that meant and not sure he wanted to know.

Neal nodded. “Dehumanization, with a heaping spoonful of Dedication on the side. Making him believe he was less than human made him able to survive life with a man who considered him an animal.”

“I think I’d rather die,” Peter said, truly meaning it, and Neal gave him a sad smile.

“Lots of slaves do. Those of us who are left, we’re the ones willing to do anything to survive. Including accepting unpleasant training in exchange for keeping the people with power over us happy.” 

In other words, Neal was a survivor. *All* slaves who made it to adulthood were survivors.

Neal took a deep breath, voice strangely casual. “Would you like to hear an example of the 3Ds being used in a way that wasn’t pleasant, but was meant for the slave’s good?”

Did Peter want to hear that? He honestly wasn’t sure. Somehow he didn’t think anything would be able to convince him that this shit was for people’s ‘own good,’ but on the other hand, wasn’t understanding Neal exactly what he and El were trying to do? And if Peter wasn’t willing to listen and try to understand the things that had made up a huge part of the slave’s life, how would Peter ever be able to understand Neal?

“Sure, Neal,” he said quietly. “If you want to tell me, then I want to listen.” He pulled off of the road in front of the house, putting the Taurus in park. He then turned in his seat enough that he was looking at Neal head on and gave him what he hoped was a comforting smile. “Anything you think is important for me to know, I want to hear.”

Neal gave him a tight smile, looking a little nervous. “Mozzie hates the sort of stuff I’m about to tell you. I think these kind of practices have their place, even if I don’t ever find them pleasant. I think when used in the right time and place, for the right reasons, and in a fair way, that they can be worthwhile.”

Peter nodded, not really because he agreed—he didn’t know enough about these ‘practices’ to say he *didn’t* agree, but from what little he did know, he had serious doubts that there was anything worthwhile about them at all.

“Mozzie, on the other hand, thinks they’re a total load of shit,” Neal continued, looking slightly amused. “He says they’re an excuse for psychologically torturing people so they won’t rebel against the Man. He calls the 3Ds ‘mind-fucking.’ When I was working with him as a teenager, he made me promise that if I was on a con and my mark tried to mind-fuck me, I’d at least *consider* ditching the job and walking away instead of accepting the training.” Neal’s lips turned upward, his eyelashes flickering in a very attractive way as he smiled. “He used to say that money is made out of trees, but you can’t grow the perfect partner in your meditation garden.”

Okay, that was it. Peter officially loved this Mozzie guy. Weirdness be damned, the man was an angel.

“It’s not a promise I’m very good at keeping, though. Despite being an egotistical smart ass who can’t keep his mouth shut to save his life, I’ve learned that if you’re going to survive around masters with high expectations, then you had better give in and actually embrace their brainwashing, because it’s not the sort of thing you can fake.” Neal shrugged. “That’s why I say that this sort of training—even though it *is* brainwashing—can be used for good. If they didn’t brainwash us, there is no way we’d be able to do the things they want us to do without killing ourselves.”

“Neal…” Peter said, heart pounding in his chest as adrenaline rushed through his body. He wanted to scream, to rage, to cry, to do *something* other than sit here quietly while Neal shared the horror story of his life, but he had promised he would stay calm and listen. Peter had to stop with the blind fury and open his mind, to try and see these things from Neal’s perspective so he could better understand what was inside that head.

Neal’s eyes danced across him, and from the look in his eyes, Peter thought maybe he wasn’t hiding his intense feelings as well as he’d hoped, but the slave just gave him a smile.

“So that example I was talking about… There was this one time when I was trying to run a con. It wasn’t going too well, and I was sort of down to my last straw. I needed to win over this guy.” Neal frowned, a strange look in his bright blue eyes as he said, “I don’t even remember his name. Let’s call him, I dunno, how about, Master Stall?”

Master Stall? What did that mean? “Okay,” Peter said slowly. “So you were running a con on Master Stall, and it wasn’t going well.”

Neal nodded. “Since nothing else had worked, I figured that I might as well make use of my pretty face. I decided to seduce him, the way I usually seduced my marks, which is basically by acting like a whore.” His face reddened a little at the words. “What I didn’t realize was that this mark had experience in slave training. He knew what slaves are and aren’t supposed to do according to the books, which meant he knew that coming on to a free man by talking sexy and flirting is against protocol.”

“You slaves sure have a lot of protocol, don’t you?” Peter said, and Neal chuckled.

“You free men do, too, you just don’t realize it because they’re not numbered. Why do you think you hold open doors for old ladies and stand obediently in line at the bank instead of cutting to the front?”

Peter laughed. “Okay, you got me there. So what did this Master Stall do?”

“He decided to work on my training,” Neal said with a shrug. “He decided I needed a remedial lesson, so he blindfolded me and took me to his car. When I mouthed off, making a joke while we were driving about him kidnapping people, he reminded me that I’m not a person and told me that he was doing this to help me. The first step of Dehumanization with a little touch of Dedication thrown in.”

Peter grimaced. “How very sweet of him.”

Neal’s lips twitched. “Amusingly enough, that is pretty much exactly what I was thinking at the time, sarcasm included.”

“So where did he drive you?” Peter asked, as curious as he was horrified.

“To SlaveMart,” Neal said. “Which, in case you couldn’t guess, is every slave’s worst nightmare.” He shuddered. “No one wants to go back to SlaveMart.”

“Why the hell would he take you there?” Peter said, confused. “To sell you?”

Neal laughed. “No, he welcomed me home and told me that he’d brought me back to my roots so I could remember where I came from. You know that I spend a lot of time scheming and planning and stuff, and this guy did, too. He said my need to try and control things had made me forget that I have no control in life. He reminded me how disrespectful I had been to him, over and over again, and said that while he wouldn’t force me to do anything, he wasn’t willing to put up with my ego and my poor behavior any longer. If I wanted to repair what I’d broken, I should think about what I could do to prove that I respect him.”

“Prove that you respect him?” Peter said, shaking his head. “What does that even mean?”

Neal’s cheeks reddened again, and he looked away for a second, obviously embarrassed. “It meant that I should offer to let him do anything he wanted with me.”

Peter choked a little. “You mean…”

Neal nodded. “Yeah.”

“But you didn’t—“

“I did,” Neal interrupted. “I was embarrassed and felt guilty about what had happened. I felt like I needed to fix it. So I offered to serve him, he oh-so-graciously accepted, I thanked him, and he walked me to the restrooms in the back.”

Neal’s nostrils flared, lashes fluttering as he dropped his eyes. “As you know, I’m pretty picky about hygiene and how I look in general. The idea of having intercourse in a public restroom did not exactly thrill. That was the point, though, and if I had been the trainer in this situation, it’s what I would have done, too.”

Peter made a face. “Why?”

“Dehumanization,” Neal said, like it was a good thing. Peter grimaced. “It was something I found humiliating and degrading, something that was a real stab to my ego. His intent was to remind me that I don’t have a *right* to be egotistical about this stuff.” Neal gave a defeated sounding chuckle. “As he put it, I’m not too good for a restroom. I’m a sex slave, which means I’m not too good for *anywhere*, certainly not for the floor next to a toilet.” Neal swallowed hard. “And that’s true. It… It was a reminder that I needed.”

Peter shook his head, feeling sick to his stomach. He didn’t know what to say to that. Technically it was true—Neal had no choice about where or when he had sex—but it sure as hell wasn’t something a person needed reminding of.

“He did all the usual Dehumanization tricks,” Neal continued, voice amazingly steady. “Continually talking to me like you would to a beloved pet or a small child or something else cute and stupid. Saying things about me that were both humiliating and true. Then he would add some Dedication by tossing in something to make me feel better.”

“Like what?” Peter questioned.

Neal’s face went red again, and Peter regretted asking. The slave dropped his eyes, bowing his head slightly. He was silent for a moment then he said, “Like when he told me that while he wouldn’t let his dog kiss my mouth knowing where it’s been, he doesn’t look down on me for being a fuckling. Or when I said something intelligent, and he responded by saying that he knew I was smart—he’d even stepped in and defended me earlier that morning when he heard a group of free men talking about how stupid I was, telling them that just because I was bred to be fucked doesn’t necessarily make me dumb.”

Peter’s mouth dropped open. “Wait, those things are supposed to make you *dedicated* to him? That sounds more like the kind of thing that gets someone punched in the face!”

Neal gave him a tight smile. “I’m a fuckling, and most people *do* think of me as a disgusting, brainless animal. To say that you don’t believe that *is* being nice, even if there are some insults mixed in. It gets a nice mix of humiliation and gratitude whirling around, which is great for putting a slave in their place.”

“God,” Peter said, rubbing a hand across his face. “I have to say that I am less than impressed with this guy’s amazing training abilities.”

“You just don’t like them because they’re hurtful,” Neal said. “But they’re effective. By the time he was done with me, I was a new person in how I acted around him.” He looked down. “A bunch of things went down, all a mix of Dehumanization and Dedication. You probably don’t want to hear all the dirty details.” He paused, licking his lips nervously as he glanced back up at Peter. “Do you?”

Peter’s stomach turned. “No, Neal,” he said in a thick voice. “Unless it’s something you want me to know, I have no interest in hearing details about you being hurt.”

Neal nodded, though from the look on his face Peter wasn’t sure the slave believed him. “Then… then came the third D. Distancing. Where you separate slaves from the things they connect with other than their masters. This one… This is one that I really need,” his voice sounded small, and Peter’s heart ached. “I like stuff, like nice clothes and hats and shoes. I like looking nice.”

Any other day, Peter probably would have made a joke about Neal’s obsession with clothes, but right now he didn’t find it funny at all. God forbid this poor slave find some pleasure in life.

“He warned me he was going in deep, but I was still feeling really embarrassed thanks to that big ego he was trying to fix, and consciously I tried to take it, but subconsciously I was fighting it, and…” Neal trailed off, staring at the dashboard like it held the answers to the universe.

“And?” Peter prompted after a minute.

Neal’s face was burning red now. “And I vomited on him.” Neal’s voice went soft, his eyes dropping and his hands attempting to move behind his back, though the car seat made it impossible. “After he had warned me not to fight it. This… this is the part that shows he’s a good trainer.” Neal looked up, those blue eyes practically burning through Peter. “Most trainers would have made me swallow it or spit it out on myself, then they would have ditched the training and punished me for what I did. Master Stall let me spit it out in the toilet, and he laughed at me a little, but he didn’t hit me or punish me.”

Oh, well, if he didn’t *hit* him. Peter’s hands were gripping his knees so tight it was painful.

“He called me out on the fact that I was mentally fighting it, reminded me that I needed to let go of all this stuff that made me feel so important, and then he wiped the puke I’d gotten all over him off on my face.” Neal reached up, touching his face lightly while Peter tried his best not to puke himself. “It was good Distancing training for someone like me. I don’t… I don’t like being messy. It reminded me that I don’t get to decide whether or not I stay clean.”

“Why the hell didn’t you just punch the bastard in the nuts?” Peter said, no longer able to keep silent. “I mean, all of this stuff is pretty bad, but him forcing you to let him… Ugh, Neal. That’s horrible.”

Neal looked at him strangely. “He didn’t force me, Master. I let him do it. I accepted that he had the right to do it. That’s what training is. If he forced me, it wouldn’t be good training. Slaves don’t learn anything when you force them to do everything. You have to train them to be willing to do what you ask.”

Peter blinked, unable to really comprehend that. Why would anyone *allow* someone to wipe vomit onto their face with their penis? They wouldn’t. Neal might think he let it happen, but the psychological depths of this were much more complicated than that.

Neal let out a deep breath before continuing. “After that we tried again, and this time I did good.” There was something painfully childlike about those words, and a Thomas the Tank Engine t-shirt flashed through Peter’s mind.

“He told me he was proud of me for recognizing that the smart, capable, in-control person I’d invented in my head wasn’t real, and he pointed out that now I had proof he was only make believe. After all, that person wouldn’t be kneeling in a public restroom covered in bodily fluids, holding a dick in his mouth.” Neal’s voice sounded bitter, and he shook his head slowly, shoulders hunching. “I think maybe he’s right about that.”

Peter was starting to understand what Neal meant when he called this “good training.” Even though Peter knew that was a complete load of shit, he didn’t know how to express that in a way that Neal would believe—this guy was good at manipulating situations until it was difficult to think about them clearly.

“When he finished, there was even more mess on my face. So then he did the final big mix of all the 3Ds. He got some paper towels, knelt down beside me, and used water from the toilet to wash my face.” Neal sighed, sounding more tired now than anything else.

“I told you it was good training. When I first entered that stall, I don’t think I would have let him do it. Or if I did, I would have been seriously pissed about it. It was still humiliating, but by then I had accepted that if this man wanted to clean the bodily fluids off my face with toilet water, that was his right.” Neal bit his lip. “I was even willing to admit that he was being kind, cleaning me up at all when he could have made me walk out in public with semen and saliva and vomit on my face. It was humiliating, but I was grateful for it, too. He even gave me mouthwash. I probably would have made the slave drink from the toilet to clean its mouth. That’s what the trainers who invented the 3Ds would have suggested.”

Peter flinched at that. “You really would have done these things if you were the trainer?”

Neal nodded. “Yes, Master. It isn’t pleasant, but it turns a slave into what it needs to be to survive.”

Peter nodded slowly, willing to accept that. Not from the bastard trainers, but from a slave. It was obviously survival of the fittest, and in Neal’s mind it was better to brainwash someone than for that someone to die.

“At this point the lesson was mostly over. He reminded me of my place, laid out his expectations for how I would act in the future, and warned me that if I behaved poorly then there would be consequences. He told me that he was proud of me for acknowledging that I was property and accepting that property is all I would ever be, then I thanked him for fucking my mouth and he left me to finish washing myself in the toilet.”

“What an asshole,” Peter said, because what the hell else was there to say? 

Neal sighed, shaking his head. “No, Master, that’s what I’m trying to explain. This was good training. It wasn’t fun, but it addressed all of the stuff that gets me into trouble. He succeeded in reminding me that I owe him respect, and he made it clear that, unlike some other masters, he wasn’t going to let my bad attitude go. He told me exactly what he wanted from me in the future, and you can be sure that I will definitely—I mean, that I *would* definitely have given him what he wanted. The part of my mind that thinks like a free man considers this all a bunch of bullshit, but as a slave? I feel like I got exactly what I deserved.” Neal sighed. “Mozzie wanted to push the guy off of a tall building. I wanted to thank him.”

Peter leaned forward, reaching out and brushing his fingertips against Neal’s knuckles. “You know that’s a normal response of abuse victims, Neal.”

“Yes, Master,” Neal said with a nod. “That psychological reaction is what the 3Ds are based on. But what you call abuse is what slaves consider the everyday norm. All slaves face stuff like this, all the time. All of those slaves you met today? They go through this stuff. Probably not as much as me since most slaves aren’t mouthy smart asses like I am, but they wouldn’t be shocked. What’s shocking is the fact that these things bother you so much, because they’re normal.”

“Normal and right are not the same things, Neal,” Peter said firmly, and Neal sighed, looking frustrated.

“It’s not my place to tell you how to think or feel, Master, much less how to react. But please, please, *please* think about the stuff I said, and try to see it from my point of view. There *is* a difference between people who take advantage of the fact that slaves are pretty much helpless in society—people like Agent Johnson—and people who expect slaves to behave in a certain way and use certain training methods to help them achieve that. Please, Master, please try and understand how sometimes slaves need stuff like this if they’re going to survive, much less succeed.”

Peter frowned, the intensity of Neal’s words making him worried. For a story that happened so long ago, Neal sure seemed stressed about Peter’s reaction. “Why are you telling me all this, Neal? I’m very pleased that you trust me enough to talk to me, but why now?”

Neal took a deep breath, eyes locking with Peter’s.

“Because, Master Peter,” he said quietly, “Master Stall is Agent Jones.”


	32. RESPECT (Find Out What It Means to Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Neal finally gets some consensual sex, Peter gets his Dom and his kinky pictures on, and El is a funny lady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, 32 chapters and 250,000 words in, Neal is finally getting some CONSENSUAL sex! Woohoo! It's still very D/s, 'cause that's how things are between them right now, but it's not non-con! Yippee! XD

“I cannot believe I left my phone at the office,” Peter muttered as he paced the living room, his ragged wingtips practically wearing a hole in the carpet.

“Mm-hm,” Neal replied in order to avoid having to admit that he’d filched Peter’s phone from his pocket during the car ride home. Be prepared, right?

He couldn’t believe he’d actually worked up the courage to tell Peter about his little training lesson with Jones. The humiliation of describing it all still warmed his cheeks, but Peter had taken it better than expected. Meaning he hadn’t immediately run off to dangle Jones from the roof of the FBI by his ankle. That didn’t mean he was taking it well, but at least he wasn’t rolling around on a kitchen floor throwing punches and shouting about pedophiles like the other night at Master Jack’s house.

“I am going to kick his ass,” Peter said for the ten thousandth time in the past twenty minutes. He had practically stormed out of the car after Neal’s confession, up the steps to the empty house. Where, exactly, Ms. El was, Neal wasn’t sure, but Peter hadn’t seemed surprised that she was out; he hadn’t even bothered to look in the kitchen before attempting to call her on his cellphone. The cellphone burning a hole in Neal’s pocket.

“I still can’t believe he… I thought I knew him better than that,” Peter muttered in a pained voice. “I don’t understand how he could have… Oh, God.” Peter rubbed his big hands across his face, and Neal had a sudden urge to wrap his arms around the man.

Huh, that was strange. Neal wasn’t usually drawn to touching free men like that. He didn’t even hug Mozzie much since Mozzie thought his touchy feeliness was weird, just like all free men. Neal usually saved it for his fellow slaves, who generally enjoyed the relaxing experience of being touched by someone they knew for a fact wasn’t going to try and stick his penis where the sun don’t shine.

“Master, please don’t be angry,” Neal said, wrapping his arms around himself as he snuggled in deeper to the couch. He would actually be more comfortable on the floor—it would be less stressful, especially considering the sort of headspace he was in after his training session—but Peter had told him to ‘sit his ass on the damn couch,’ so that’s what Neal did.

“I am so sorry this happened, Neal. I swear, I will fix it—“

“No!” Neal interrupted, then winced at his own audacity. He really was a lousy slave. There was no hiding that from Master Jones, but he still had the chance to win his actual master over if he put some real effort into it. Except all of the scheming he’d been doing this morning, creating lists of ways to basically con Peter and his wife into wanting him, was exactly the sort of thing Master Jones had called him out on. So wouldn’t putting that kind of effort into it actually *be* what made him a lousy slave?

Neal’s head was beginning to hurt. ‘Mind-fuck’ really wasn’t a bad euphemism for these kind of lessons.

“Master, please, don’t do anything,” Neal begged. “Master Jones did what he thought was needed to fix our working relationship. I don’t want to undermine him.”

Peter actually rolled his eyes. “*Master Jones* is an idiot,” he said, the extra emphasis on ‘Master Jones’ making it clear how ridiculous he found the title that had somehow found its way into Neal’s head during his lesson. “If he thought for a single second that *this* is what I meant when I told him to fix his problems with you, then he needs to have his head examined.”

Peter sighed and sat down on the couch next to Neal, eyeing the slave. “I don’t suppose you have any idea where my phone is?”

Neal slumped down, guilt washing over him. “It’s possible, sir,” he murmured, and Peter sighed again.

“Neal, if you don’t want me to say anything to Jones then, well, I can’t say *nothing*—I am way too pissed off for that—but I won’t go nuts, okay? And I’ll give it a little time, until tomorrow at least. You don’t have to confiscate my electronics to keep me in check.”

Neal’s cheeks reddened at the idea that he would try and keep his master ‘in check.’ Except, that’s exactly what he was doing, wasn’t it? He really was a control freak.

If Jones heard about this, Neal would definitely be on his knees in the bathroom again. Or maybe he’d get to spend some time lying in the trash by the Dumpster behind the office building. As a teenager he’d had a trainer who would fuck him lying on the ground in garbage filled alleys because he knew how much it distressed Neal to hear that he belonged with the trash.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Neal said, pulling the phone out of his pocket and handing it to Peter. “I’m really sorry; please don’t tell Master Jones.”

Peter blinked at that, looking confused. “What?”

Neal’s cheeks reddened. “If he finds out I tried to manipulate your reactions, he’ll think I need another lesson for sure.”

Peter stared at Neal with a strange look on his face. When he spoke there was a touch of disbelief to the tone. “You’re really afraid of him. Like really afraid. More afraid than you were of the warden, or of me when that whole Adler mess went down. This is a whole different level of fear.”

Neal frowned, shaking his head. “No, Master, I’m not afraid of him, I *respect* him. I was afraid of the warden, but I didn’t respect him. Of course, I totally respect you,” Neal added quickly. “Completely.”

“Uh-huh,” Peter said, not sounding like he believed that for a second. He sat back, crossing his arms over his chest, a thoughtful look on his face. “I think I get it. The warden, he could hurt you physically, but that’s all he could do because you didn’t give him any power over you up here.” Peter tapped his forehead. “You gave Jones total power over you when you decided that you would do whatever he wanted—*and* accept it as right—no matter what. Now you feel like you have to be his idea of perfect or you’ll be punished, and you’ll have to accept being punished because you already made the decision to do whatever he wants. It’s a vicious circle. You call it respecting him, but it’s just a deeper form of fear.”

Neal bit his lip, contemplating this. He guessed it was sort of true. But, technically… “Fear and respect are the same thing, Master,” Neal said.

“No,” Peter said, shaking his head. “Fear and respect are *not* the same thing, Neal. I’m not afraid of you since I’m pretty sure I could take you in a wrestling match,” he winked and Neal gave him a tight smile. “But I sure as hell respect you.”

Neal looked at him sharply, wondering when his master had gone completely insane. “How do you respect a slave? That’s not even possible.”

Peter studied him, frowning. “Neal, what do you think it means to respect someone?”

The slave shrugged, frowning a little. “Respect is… listening when someone talks and being deferential in your treatment of them. It’s doing what they ask and agreeing with their opinions, not speaking up against them… It’s acknowledging their superiority and accepting whatever they think, not questioning what they say.”

Peter sighed, rolling his shoulders like they were stiff. “I don’t know what that is, Neal, but it’s not respect. Obedience, maybe? I don’t know, but it’s *not* respect. Respect is considering a person to be worthwhile, appreciating them for their good qualities, for their abilities and talents. It’s thinking of them as invaluable to the world as a whole. None of those things require you to fear a person, *or* to accept everything they say without question.”

“That’s not the kind of respect people want from their slaves,” Neal said honestly. “By that definition, I definitely respect Master Jones *and* you and Mistress El and Agent Berrigan and a whole list of other people. I sure don’t need any lessons on that. But that’s not the kind of respect that’s demanded of a slave. I mean, how would you prove that sort of respect? By patting someone on the head, telling them how super talented they are, and complimenting them on their oral hygiene?”

“Respect isn’t something you ‘prove’ on command, Neal,” Peter said. “It’s something you show someone over a long period of time by the way you interact with them.”

Neal shook his head, not particularly convinced. Maybe that was respect between free men, but it was different for slaves. Peter didn’t understand. He didn’t spend time around slaves, so he didn’t understand what was *expected* of Neal by most people in this society.

So far Operation: Woo Master had been a complete bust, and all of Neal’s attempts to win Peter’s affection, or at least his physical attraction, had blown up in his face. But maybe the problem *wasn’t* that Peter had no interest in making use of Neal. Maybe the problem was that Peter had absolutely no idea how someone like Neal should treat someone like him and was working off the assumption that Neal was supposed to be ‘appreciating him for his good qualities’ or whatever and that anything beyond that was not kosher. 

No wonder Peter didn’t want to make Neal his personal pet if he thought that Neal would be free to run around acting on his own whims without even bothering to acknowledge his place. Not that the way Neal had been acting since he got out of the prison had particularly helped that view of him. Even during the times he’d ‘submitted’ to Peter as a slave, Neal had still been plotting in his head, doing his best to run the show behind the scenes instead of showing his master that he was capable of being a good boy if he tried.

“What are you thinking, Neal?” Peter asked, startling the slave from his thoughts. Neal stared at him for a moment, licking his lips as he tried to decide what he should say.

“I’m thinking that I have been pretty manipulative this past week, Master,” Neal said finally, going with honesty for once. “I’m thinking that I’ve been trying so hard to come up with a plan that would make you want to keep me as your slave so I wouldn’t have to go back to prison that I haven’t done a very good job actually showing you what you would get. I’m thinking that the mess with Jones shouldn’t have happened at all, because that should have been us from the beginning—you as the master and me as your property, respecting what you have to say instead of me trying to direct the show by attempting to give you what I *thought* you wanted, something that obviously hasn’t worked out too well since I really, really misjudged who you are.”

Peter stared at him thoughtfully, a strange look on his face. The room was strangely silent, the only sound Neal’s slightly quickened breath. Peter sat on the couch beside him in silent contemplation, arms crossed over his chest and head cocked slightly to the side, until the slave thought he was going to go crazy. Neal opened his mouth to speak, then forced himself to shut it again. It wasn’t his place to talk now. Not his place. Not his place.

After what seemed like six hours or so but was probably more like five minutes, Peter let out a deep sigh and mumbled, “Somebody’s got to take the first steps.”

“I’m sorry, Master?” Neal said, a little timidly, and Peter reached out, placing a hand against Neal’s cheek.

“You’re right, Neal. I appreciate you being willing to admit that you’ve made a mistake.”

“Thank you, Master,” Neal said, a rush of relief flooding him. He was getting another chance, and this time he wasn’t going to blow it by trying to trick his master into wanting him the way he had every mark he’d ever run a job on. He was going to do this the right way. “If you want, I would love it if you’d let me prove my respect for you so that you can better understand what respect between a master and his slave is.”

Peter’s hand fell away from his cheek, a slightly pained expression coming over his face and a tiny bit of sweat shining on his forehead. “Neal,” he said in a low voice, “are you asking for me to let you ‘prove’ your respect the way you proved it to Jones?”

Laid out like that, it sounded a little weird, especially considering how upset he knew Peter was over the Jones incident, but that technically *was* what Neal meant, so…

“Yes, Master,” he said, his stomach clenching a little. “Please, Master, I really want to.”

Peter sat back, his face solemn as he studied Neal. His big hands idly rubbed his knees, and the toe of one wingtip was tapping nervously. Finally he swallowed and gave a sharp nod. “Okay, Neal. *If* it’s what you want to do, I would like that.”

Neal’s eyes widened slightly, his heart speeding up. Peter had really said okay? If he was honest with himself, Neal had thought it more likely he’d get a punch to the nose than an ‘okay.’ This was a good thing, though. A very good thing. Sure, it wasn’t going to be pleasant, but if he did well, he had a chance of really, truly winning Peter over.

Neal quickly gathered his wits, mind spinning as he considered the best way to go about this. Unlike Jones, Peter had no experience with slaves; however, that didn’t mean Neal had a right to take advantage of that like he had in the past. Kissing him without his permission, instigating a sexual encounter, preparing himself as the hostess gift instead of waiting for orders to do so—all of those things had blown up in his face even though Peter didn’t technically know that they were all breaks in protocol.

“Master, with your permission, I would like to lay out the protocol for this sort of encounter so that you’ll be aware if I’m not serving to my full potential.” And be able to call his slacker ass on it.

Peter opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again after a moment. “Yes, Neal, I’d be very interested in hearing the, uh, protocol. Because I do expect you to,” he cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable, “serve to your full potential.”

“Thank you, Master,” Neal said. He took a deep breath, running quickly through the main requirements of oral service in his head. “As a good slave, I should keep my eyes on you at all times, I shouldn’t touch you with my hands without verbal permission, I shouldn’t remove my mouth from you or take any break from service, I shouldn’t try and clean myself in any way, I should allow the position of my head to manipulated in any way, and I should make sure that whatever act I’m performing is done to my highest ability.” There, that was basically it. He doubted Peter was interested in hearing the specific details regarding swallowing semen or covering your teeth or speaking with your mouth held open and your tongue clamped down.

“Hm,” Peter replied, lips pressed tightly together. His cock, though, seemed to find the protocol enlightening, as it was standing in interest. “I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.”

“Thank you, Master,” Neal said as he slipped off of the couch down onto his knees in front of the man. He reached up, loosening the knot on his tie then tugging the strip of blue silk off, dropping it on the floor beside him. He then began to work the buttons of his shirt, tugging it free of his trousers as he slowly revealed his chest.

Neal shrugged the shirt off, tossing it carelessly onto the floor beside the tie. He wasn’t usually the type to just dump his clothes in a wrinkled pile on the ground, but he hadn’t forgotten today’s lesson. Keeping his things clean wasn’t important, not when he was supposed to be serving.

Peter was sitting stiff as a freaking statue above him, eyes wide as he stared down at Neal like he’d seen a very attractive ghost. His knees were spread, big hands clamped down on them, and Neal moved between them, settling his arms behind his back as he pressed his face into the man’s crotch, rubbing against it like he was trying to wipe the scent on himself.

“I want to be a good boy, Master,” Neal said softly, tipping his chin up so Peter could see the metal collar around his neck. Peter’s jaw tightened slightly, shoulders tensing. “Please use me.”

Peter remained silent, his face like stone, but Neal could feel the man’s interest pressing against his face. Peter’s cock was hardening almost as fast as Neal’s was. Of course, Peter probably didn’t find his erection humiliating, the way Neal did, but whatever. Getting hard while servicing was part of being a fuckling. Jones had said he didn’t look down on Neal for liking this, and hopefully Peter wouldn’t either.

The thought that Neal actually liked this made a flash of anger shoot through him, and he forced it away. He was a fuckling, he was a whore, he liked this, that was reality, time to face facts and deal.

Neal moved a hand forward, unbuttoning his fly and releasing his mostly-hard cock so that if he looked down he would have to see it. He needed to stop pretending he was something that he wasn’t. He deserved to feel sick when he saw it, because it simply showed he thought that he was some suave playboy who was too good to get hard while being fucked in the face instead of the slut he was.

Peter’s hand reached out, fingers running through Neal’s hair, and the slave rolled his eyes up so they were locked with his master’s, keeping all of his attention on him.

Neal used lips and teeth to work open Peter’s fly, a talent he had spent many a year perfecting, arms returning behind his back. There wasn’t much else Neal could do without using his hands, so he sat back, eyes still on his master, and waited.

Peter stared at him for a while then blinked, looking down at his crotch. After a moment he lifted his hips up enough to tug down his trousers and his Yankee boxers, releasing his cock. It was well sized, but thankfully not as disturbingly large as Jones’ was. If it had been, Neal might have suspected that the FBI was recruiting their agents off of PornHub.

Neal continued to sit, waiting for directions as Peter just looked at him. Finally the man spoke up, voice sounding awkward. “So, now…”

‘So, now,’ what? What was his master waiting for? As much as Neal wanted to prove himself, he also wanted to get this over with. His throat was still sore from the burn of stomach acids, his temples ached from the viciousness of Jones’ thrusts, and even his knees were sore from kneeling so long on the hard tile at SlaveMart. If he was this bad now, he could only imagine what he’d be like once Peter finished with him. At least his master hadn’t asked him to remove his pants; rug burn was never fun.

“Did you want me to take you in my mouth, sir?” Neal finally prompted, not sure what Peter was waiting for. All he had to do was tell Neal to open up and say ‘ah’ and the show would be on.

Peter’s breath caught, his cock twitching a little, and he smiled down tightly at Neal. “Plea—I mean, yes, Neal.” He cleared his throat, that uncomfortable look returning. “Take me in your mouth.”

Neal obeyed, eyes locked on his master as he ran his face up and down the man’s shaft, pointedly letting the tip smack him in the eye and his lips bump up against the balls and generally making it clear that he knew his face was his master’s playground, then he slipped the head between his lips.

Peter gave a little moan when Neal mouthed the soft skin, suckling as he let the shaft slide in deeper and deeper. He began swallowing rapidly well before it hit the back of his throat, not about to let the horror show that had occurred earlier that day be repeated, and he did his best to completely clear his mind as he let Peter’s cock slam into his throat and slide downward.

Soft gagging sounds escaped as he choked it down, rough and deep, until he could feel the man’s pubic hair against his face. He was still gagging, and his eyes were watering from the effort, but Neal’s stomach was calm. Or as calm as your stomach could be when you were deep throating someone, anyway.

Neal held himself there, slowly counting out the seconds in his head. He would *not* come up before ten and he would *not* throw up, he could do this, he could do this, he could do this—

“Neal, please, you sound like you’re dying!”

Peter’s voice made Neal jerk, breaking his concentration and sending a little stomach acid rising. Neal quickly swallowed it down before it could actually spill out, then he slowly eased off until only the head of Peter’s cock was in his mouth, eyebrows raised in question at the man above him.

“Suuhr?” he said around the dick in his mouth, and Peter grimaced, reaching out and running both of his hands through Neal’s hair.

“Neal, you can’t be enjoying this. I can tell from the look on your face that it is more than a little uncomfortable. I don’t want you doing something that’s not pleasurable.”

A little flash of annoyance went through Neal. Pleasurable? What did that even mean? Neal was pretty sure that there was *never* anything pleasurable about getting your face fucked. Did he want Neal to fake that he liked it? He knew some masters liked to pretend their slaves enjoyed sex, but after the day he’d had, Neal really didn’t feel up to it.

He smiled around Peter’s cock, hoping he looked eager to please, then slid back downward. Maybe he wasn’t up to faking a good time, but he could at least *give* the man a good time.

o o o

It was taking every bit of Peter’s self-control not to thrust into Neal’s mouth like a madman. The hot, stickiness of it was intoxicating, and his cock was pulsing like crazy between those soft lips, the feeling of his entire shaft engulfed by that constant sucking warmth driving him nuts.

The look in Neal’s eyes, however, was most definitely helping to keep him in check. While the slave’s movements were eager, the look in his eyes could only be described as dull, something that was sort of freaky considering that they were literally locked with Peter’s, almost unblinking.

The boy was taking Peter’s cock shockingly deep in his throat—if this was how far he’d taken Jones, Peter wasn’t surprised he’d thrown up—slamming himself up and down without any noticeable care for his own comfort. Tears trickled out of the corners of his eyes, through whether the watering was from his refusal to blink, the strain of taking a good seven inches of thick erection down his esophagus, or the emotional stress of it all, Peter didn’t know. 

The gagging was constant, his cheeks were bright red from the effort, and drool was running from his lips down his chin as it leaked around the cock in his mouth. Peter wasn’t even sure how the slave was breathing since he took absolutely no breaks, and though his nostrils flared every now and then, it didn’t seem like nearly enough to fill the lungs.

Overall, the picture was both incredibly fucking hot and horribly depressing. If Peter had thought there was any chance at all that Neal was enjoying this, then it would have been the ultimate fantasy, but since he was one hundred percent sure that the boy would rather be dancing on hot coals than doing this, it wasn’t exactly a dream come true.

Sex was about pleasure, Peter was a strong believer in that, and if both parties weren’t enjoying it, then it wasn’t good sex. Physically this was pleasurable, but mentally? It made Peter feel a little ill. It was one thing to play dominance and submission *games*, but this was no game. Neal was showing him his ‘respect’—AKA, his total submission—by performing an act that was both degrading and extremely uncomfortable. That was not how Peter wanted to be ‘respected.’

He had tried to get Neal to stop only a few minutes in, but the boy had simply paused for a moment, looked at Peter like he was a nutcase, and returned to what could only be described as a vicious fucking of his own face.

Peter recognized that if he wanted to have a relationship with Neal, he was going to have to play a role that was difficult for him, at least in the beginning. He’d actually tried to implement some of the stuff Neal described as ‘normal’ for slaves, things like chiding Neal about his ‘mistake’, telling him that he expected him to perform those protocol things to his full potential, and giving orders instead of suggestions or requests, but they were rapidly approaching a line Peter couldn’t cross.

The sexual act Neal was performing had moved beyond submission into something much too close to rape, in Peter’s mind. He knew that most people wouldn’t see it that way—the fact that Jones had done this and way, way worse yet apparently thought of it as perfectly acceptable was proof enough—but it was painfully obvious that, despite being the one doing the actual work, Neal would rather be anywhere else. How was that not rape?

Peter took a deep breath, letting it out with a whoosh as the pleasure of Neal’s mouth on his cock continued to flood his senses. If he *really* wanted to stop this, there *was* a way. Peter wasn’t all that comfortable with it, but surely it was better than watching as Neal suffered through something he obviously found disgusting.

Fuck it. It was time to man up and give Neal what he apparently needed at this point in time.

“Neal, stop.” Peter’s words were short and firm. Sadly enough, he was actually copying the no-nonsense tone that Jones used with slaves.

Neal obeyed instantly, pulling back enough that Peter’s cock wasn’t practically in his stomach, but still keeping a good four, maybe five, inches in his mouth—because God forbid slaves remove Master’s penis from their mouths for ten seconds. Peter could actually *feel* the boy’s throat spasming around the head of his cock, something that was once again super hot and really depressing.

“You are really amazing, Neal,” Peter said, not wanting the slave to think he didn’t appreciate his skill. “You are very talented at this. You are…” He paused, having to force the next words out, they felt so twisted on his tongue. “You’re a very good boy.”

Neal smiled around Peter’s cock, lashes fluttering as he dropped his eyes for an instant before quickly latching them on his master again. It was the first sign of actual, real pleasure that Peter had seen from him since he’d dropped to his knees.

“It looks like what you’re doing there is pretty uncomfortable, though, and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, Neal.”

The confusion was clear in Neal’s blue eyes, and Peter had a feeling that masters didn’t usually bother mentioning his comfort. Or acknowledging that it existed at all. 

“I want…” Peter cleared his throat, what he was about to do making his stomach turn and his cock twitch, an interesting combination. “I want you to lay down on the floor, okay, buddy?”

Neal’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t argue, slowly sliding off of Peter’s cock and moving to lay down on the carpet by the couch. He paused, looking up at Peter. 

“Master, did you want me to remove my pants?” His voice was hoarse, no surprise considering what he’d been doing for the last ten minutes.

“No, Neal,” Peter said as he stood, gathering up a few of the colorful, decorative pillows they always stacked on the sofa. “Just lay down on your back.”

“Thank you, sir,” Neal said, though Peter had not a clue what he was being thanked for.

The agent slipped his own trousers off the rest of the way, letting them drop to the floor and stepping out of them. He knelt down next to Neal, carefully lifting up the boy’s head and slipping the pillows beneath, propping him up.

“Is that comfortable, Neal?” he asked, and the slave looked at him like he was nuts.

“Yes, Master,” he said, though Peter seriously doubted he would tell him if it wasn’t.

“Good,” Peter said, smiling down at him. He yanked off his tie, tossing it aside, then unbuttoned his shirt, sliding it off and balling it up in one hand. He used the soft cotton to carefully wipe at the sweat trickling down Neal’s forehead, the tears that had escaped down his cheeks, and the saliva that had spilled out of his mouth, then he set it aside. “You wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Neal’s eyes were more than a little nervous as Peter stood and headed toward the kitchen, but he obeyed, not moving an inch.

Peter yanked open the fridge, pulling out a couple of water bottles before heading back to the living room. He glanced at the clock. Eight-thirty. They still had around two hours before El would be home, plenty of time.

The agent smiled as he knelt back down next to Neal and unscrewed the top on one of the bottles, gently raising it to the slave’s lips.

Neal took a small sip, wincing a little as the cold water hit what Peter had no doubt was a very sore throat, then he took another, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

“Thank you, Master,” he said in a soft voice, though the look on his face was almost frightened. “You’re very generous.”

Oh yeah, a couple of sips of water—talk about the ultimate act of charity.

“Yes, I am, Neal,” Peter said, the words tasting sour, but the frightened look on his slave’s face vanished immediately, the fear that he was being tricked gone with the acknowledgment.

“Would you like to fuck me now, Master?” Neal questioned, and Peter shook his head, though the words made his cock bounce.

“No, Neal, we’re going to continue what we were doing. Only this time you’re going to follow my instructions.”

“Of course, Master,” Neal said quickly. “I’m happy to follow your instructions.”

“Good boy,” Peter said, and once again Neal’s lips turned up in a smile, the blue eyes that were locked on Peter like a tracking device going from dull to hopeful. Ugh, these 3D things were as disturbing as hell. It was like being part of fucking Al Qaeda.

Part of Peter just wanted to get up and walk out, to screw all of this and go jerk off in the shower. But most of him really, *really* wanted to try and show Neal that even if the psychological effects of the things he’d lived through didn’t let Neal feel pleasure with his master yet, he most certainly didn’t have to suffer to prove something to Peter.

“You’re going to lie still, okay?” Peter said, and Neal gave a tiny nod, though the fear in his eyes was obvious—or, hell, he probably thought it was respect. Either way, he obviously expected this to be a deep, rough ride.

Peter straddled the boy, resting his buttocks very gently on Neal’s strong, well defined chest, careful not to put too much weight on him. He reached down, palming his hard cock and moving it toward Neal’s slightly tilted head, gently stroking the boy’s lips with the tip.

Neal moved to open his mouth and swallow it, but Peter shook his head.

“No, not yet, buddy. What did I ask you to do?”

“You asked me to lie still, Master,” Neal said quietly, eyes dropping for a moment before jerking back up. Right. The ‘can’t take your eyes off them’ protocol.

Peter gave him a big, comforting smile. “That’s right. Just lay back and feel, okay? When I want more from you, I’ll tell you. Until then, relax.”

“Yes, Master,” Neal agreed, though the fear on his face hadn’t lessened any. 

Peter stroked himself as he continued to brush his cock lightly across Neal’s pink lips, reaching out with the other hand to ruffle the boy’s curls.

“You’re so beautiful,” Peter murmured as he tipped his hips back and bent over to place a kiss on Neal’s lips, making a small noise of surprise when Neal turned his head away.

Neal’s cheeks were red, his eyes flicking back and forth between Peter and the sofa off to his right. “Master… You shouldn’t… You don’t want to… This hole, it’s not any different from the other one. You don’t want to kiss it.”

Peter’s shoulders tightened, gut twisting at the words.

“I’ve kissed you before, Neal,” he said quietly, and Neal closed his eyes for the first time since he’d gotten down on his knees.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered, sounding guilty. “I’ve been using your lack of knowledge about slaves to manipulate and con you. I should have told you that no smart person wants to kiss a fuckling.”

Oh, screw that. Peter reached down and took Neal by the chin, turning his head back toward him then dropping down and pressing his lips hard against the boy’s. Neal made a soft sound as Peter’s tongue slipped into his mouth, pressing gently against Neal’s. After a moment he pulled back, his face hovering a few inches above Neal’s.

“I want to kiss you, Neal,” he said softly. “Are you saying that I’m not a smart person?”

“No, Master, of course not,” Neal said, sounding horrified, and Peter chuckled, pressing their lips together again for a long moment before sitting back up.

He shifted his hips back forward against so his cock was brushing Neal’s lips once more.

“Kiss me,” Peter said, his hands returning to those soft curls.

Neal obeyed, pressing his mouth erotically against the tip of Peter’s dick, and Peter let out a moan, squeezing his eyes shut in pleasure.

“Good boy,” he murmured, and Neal moaned as well, the vibration of it making Peter’s cock shudder.

“Thank you, Master,” Neal whispered around the soft flesh, his breath tickling the tip of Peter’s cock. He laid another kiss on it then turned his head slightly so that he could kiss along the side of the shaft. “Thank you for letting me kiss you, sir.” His voice was husky and deep, and Peter considered himself lucky he didn’t come right then.

He pulled away, running a hand down Neal’s face and resting his fingers on those plump, swollen lips. “Open up for me, buddy. Give me your mouth.”

Neal tensed, and Peter could see him working to relax his throat. It seemed he thought it was time to restart the insane deep throating.

Slowly his lips parted, and Peter slipped two fingers between them. Neal suckled them without question, his tongue dancing along as Peter slipped them in deeper and deeper until he could feel the twitching of Neal’s throat against them. He stared down into those bright blue eyes as Neal obviously put all his trust in Peter, relaxing his entire body and gently sucking the fingers pressed deep into his throat. The twitching disappeared as his gag reflex faded and his throat relaxed.

“That’s a good boy,” Peter said as he very slowly and carefully slipped his fingers from between Neal’s lips. He reached around, manipulating the pillows beneath Neal’s head to make sure the boy was in a comfortable position before he moved his hips forward. He slipped the tip of his cock between Neal’s lips and into his hot mouth, moaning as they closed around the head and Neal’s tongue ran across the ridge.

“Suck me, Neal,” he said, running his fingers across the boy’s cheek. “Slow and easy, okay?”

“Yehsh, Mahser,” Neal said around his cock and Peter groaned at the vibrations against his sensitive flesh.

Peter nodded as the boy began to suck on the head of his dick, cheeks hallowed and blue eyes locked on Peter. He ran a finger along the side of Neal’s face, tracing the curve.

“There’s something we need to talk about, Neal,” he said quietly, staring into those beautiful, bright eyes. “You’re going to listen to what I say, and you’re not going to forget it.” Neal was looking distinctly nervous now, nostrils flaring as his breath quickened. “We need to talk about that make believe person,” Peter said. “The one you made up in your head.”

Neal’s shoulders tensed, and he paused in his ministrations, staring up at Peter with wide eyes.

Peter gave him a comforting smile, running a hand through his curls. “Did I say you could stop, Neal?”

Neal gave him an embarrassed look, cheeks hollowing again, and Peter took a deep breath, doing his best to clear his thoughts with the intense pressure between his legs.

“That made up person is smart and talented and capable and confident and beautiful. He’s a renaissance man and a charmer and an artist.” Peter looked Neal deeply in the eyes. “And he is *not* you, Neal. He’s just pretend.” Neal flinched and his eyes started to glitter, breaking Peter’s heart a little, but the boy didn’t stop sucking this time, his mouth still working steadily at Peter’s cock. 

“He’s not you,” Peter continued, “because you are *all* of those things, Neal, yes, but you are so, so much more. Smart, talented, capable, and confident are a dime a dozen, boyo. I have twenty in my goddamn office. But you are *all* of that on *top* of being a fighter, a survivor, a dreamer, a lover, and one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”

Neal’s eyes were more than glittering now, his eyelashes flicking rapidly as he tried to keep tears from falling.

“The idea that you being here, doing this, is somehow proof that you don’t possess every single one of those traits and a million more is a bunch of bullshit. *I’m* your master, and I say that being a beautiful person who makes people feel beautiful things is only proof of one thing: that you’re an amazing human being, slave or not.”

Neal made a small, whimpering noise and his shoulders trembled, though he still didn’t pause in what he was doing. Peter hadn’t said he could stop, so apparently he wasn’t going to stop, no matter what he was feeling. That really was disturbingly hot.

“You’re such a good boy,” he murmured, setting a hand down on the carpet on either side of Neal’s head so that he could bend forward and thrust. 

Peter pressed a little deeper into Neal’s hot mouth then slid back out in a slow, gentle rocking motion. He made sure the rhythm stayed easy and relaxed despite the fact that his cock was throbbing like it was about to explode and what he really wanted to do was thrust in as hard as he could. 

God, he wanted so bad to take that mouth, to make it his, to show this beautiful man who he belonged to… the only problem was that ‘this beautiful man’ was actually a slave who *literally* belonged to Peter, so the sort of aggressive dominance that Peter’s libido was screaming for him to display would surely be no fantasy to Neal. 

No, Peter had to keep himself in check and save the powerplay games for his wife, who was fully capable of using a safeword and/or kicking him in the nuts. The extreme imbalance of power here was real. Neal was powerless and Peter answered to no one when it came to the use of his slave, which meant that Peter had to be the one to monitor his own actions and make sure that he did not abuse his position as the ultimate authority.

Neal’s chest was rising and falling a little too fast as Peter continued with his gentle, shallow thrusting, the boy’s cheeks and upper chest a vivid shade of pink. He was obviously struggling to breathe, his nostrils flaring and his jaw tightening up as he tried to take some air around Peter’s cock. Sweat was trickling down his forehead and his eyes were red and watery from his efforts, but he continued to suck steadily as his master slowly humped his face.

Peter paused, pushing himself back up so he was sitting back on Neal’s chest again, his cock slipping out of Neal’s mouth with a soft pop.

“Breathe,” Peter said, reaching up to play with the boy’s curls again. “Take a breath, Neal.”

Neal stared at him, and Peter had a feeling he was trying to decide whether this little break—both literal and in protocol—was a trick, then he sucked in a deep breath through his mouth, filling his lungs, a look of relief passing over his face as his chest rose. He let it out in a whoosh then did it again, the warmth on his cheeks already fading.

“Thank you, Master,” Neal said, as if you needed to thank someone for being allowed to take a good breath. He licked his lips as Peter lifted the bottle of water to his mouth, giving him a sip.

“Master,” he said after a couple sips, his voice still low and husky, though whether it was on purpose or simply a result of what his throat had been through today, Peter wasn’t sure. “Will you touch my face? Please?” His eyes dropped to Peter’s cock, making it clear how he wanted to be touched.

“I don’t know, Neal,” Peter said in an amused tone, his cock somehow managing to grow even harder. “How nicely can you ask?”

Neal made a sound between a moan and a whimper, and Peter felt the slave’s hips give a small thrust. “Please, Master, please,” he said in a pleading tone. “I want to feel you on my face. I want to smell your skin,” Neal sucked in a deep breath through his nose as he mimed the words. “I want you to press yourself against me, to rub your cock and your balls against my face. Please, Master.”

Peter pretended to think—as if he’d have to think for a second about doing something as hot as this—rubbing his chin between his finger and his thumb. “You’ll owe me a favor if I do this. Are you going to owe me a favor, Neal?”

“Yes, Master, I will,” Neal said, nodding. “I will owe you, Master.”

“Anything I want? No matter what, no questions asked?” Peter asked, a rather wicked little plan starting to form in his mind.

“Anything, Master,” Neal said seriously, “if you’ll please just do this to me.”

“Okay, but you’re probably not going to like the favor.” Peter said, staring down at him. “I’m going to warn you right now, you *will* be sorry you said yes. Do you still want me to touch you?”

“Yeesssss, please, yes, Master.”

Peter hid a smile. “I’ll expect you to thank me, boy.”

“I will, please, Master, please, please, I will!” Neal’s hips thrust again and he made a small grunting sound.

“Alright, Neal,” Peter said, gripping the base of his cock and moving it toward Neal’s face, rubbing the shaft along his cheek, across his lips, up along his nose. He then dropped back down on all fours with his arms on either side of Neal’s head and pushed his whole crotch against Neal’s face, his hard cock pressing into it and his balls rubbing against Neal’s lips and chin. He thrust forward, rapidly humping against the slave while Neal whined in an incredibly sexy way, his blue eyes still locked on Peter.

“Thank you, Master,” he moaned. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Peter groaned in return, squeezing his eyes shut in pleasure. “Do you like that?”

“Yes,” Neal said, voice breathy. “Yes, Master, I do.”

o o o

His master let out a groan, and Neal hid a smile. No one could claim he wasn’t good at what he was trained for.

“Do you like that?”

“Yes,” Neal spoke up, using his intense arousal to make his voice sound breathy and light. “Yes, Master, I do.”

Peter moaned, and Neal had a feeling this wasn’t going to last all that much longer—though, for once, he really wouldn’t mind if it did.

Neal wasn’t entirely sure what the hell was going on, but he didn’t mean that in a bad way. Halfway through a very hardcore blowjob, Peter had stopped him and, for the first time that Neal could remember, actually started acting like his master. He wasn’t sure if learning about the session with Jones had made him recognize that Neal really was property or if Neal’s attempts to show him what it meant to be respected by a slave had convinced him that Neal was the lesser person or if the arousal had just brought out a more dominant side of the man, but whatever it was, Peter had made it clear that he was taking over.

This was fine with Neal, but it had taken a strange turn when Peter had ordered his slave onto the floor then proceeded to completely fuck with Neal’s mind, only not in a mind-fuck way. 

He’d started out fucking Neal’s mouth, if you could even describe the sort of sensual caresses and gentle thrusts he’d used as fucking, then he’d moved on to kissing, and then onto describing what a wonderful person Neal was. Neal had no clue what sort of game *that* was, but he couldn’t pretend he didn’t like it. It had left him much, much harder than he usually got during sexual encounters, and for once he didn’t find it completely distasteful.

It had been obvious as they continued that Peter was very much enjoying this role he’d taken, finding great physical and mental pleasure in controlling Neal. He also, however, seemed to take a great interest in making sure Neal was comfortable, making the slave think he’d been right in his guess that Peter was the sort who liked to pretend his slaves enjoyed sex. 

One of Neal’s talents as a fuckling was figuring out what his master enjoyed sexually and acting on his fantasies, and he’d taken a leap of faith that Peter would find it arousing if Neal was turned on by something degrading, even begging for it, so he’d used the intense arousal he’d achieved during Peter’s unusually kind evaluation to his advantage. Neal had picked an act he found a little humiliating, but not so much that it was completely distasteful, then he’d begged his master to perform it. 

His intuition was proven correct, as his already incredibly aroused master had somehow managed to get even harder as he forced his slave to beg and make promises before finally giving him the gift of pressing his genitals into Neal’s face. 

Neal actually found it strangely erotic—not the actual act, which was really just sort of gross, or the begging, which made him feel whorish for being so wanton about something that no one with dignity would ask for—but he did enjoy how incredibly aroused it made his master and how amazingly sexy he looked when he demanded Neal’s submission.

Neal didn’t usually find acts of submission to be enjoyable on any level, nor did he usually think much about a master’s level of attractiveness (or lack thereof) when he was busy trying to get through the moment without falling apart; however, there was something about the way Peter’s orders and reminders of expectations came off as actual affection rather than as someone speaking to a disobedient animal that made the situation much more bearable. In fact, it left Neal with a strong urge to please this man for the simple sake of pleasing him rather than because that was what a good slave was supposed to do.

“Neal, would it bother you if I finished here?” Peter asked in a husky voice, the way he stroked his cock along the side of Neal’s face making it clear where he wanted to come.

Neal frowned at the words, not sure why his master would ask him that.

“Master, you should finish wherever you want to,” Neal said, meaning it. It was none of his business where Peter came.

Peter’s fingers ran through his hair, his hips still slowly pumping as he continued to rub himself against his slave.

“Neal, I would love to see my cum decorating your beautiful face. The idea is incredibly hot, and it would be as sexy as hell. You would be as sexy as hell. But I know you’re not a fan of being… messy, I think is the word you used? If it would upset you then I don’t want to do it. So please, tell me the truth. Would it bother you?”

Neal bit his lip, mind racing. The fact that Peter was even asking him this was kind of nuts, and part of him thought it had to be some sort of trick. It was his master’s right to do whatever he wanted, no matter how it made Neal feel. In fact, as his lesson with Jones today had reminded him, his master *should* do this simply because he knew it made Neal uncomfortable, to remind him of his place.

“It would bother me a little, Master,” Neal admitted, looking up at him seriously. “I won’t deny that—I have a big ego. But I want you to do it. I can… manage my feelings, and I want you to take this. I mean that for real, not just as the line slaves are supposed to feed our masters. Because I want to please you. I can handle being a little uncomfortable if my discomfort will bring you pleasure, sir.”

Peter stared down at Neal, looking like he wasn’t really sure he believed him, but apparently even FBI agent superheros go with cock over conscience sometimes, because his hand tightened around himself.

“Do you have any idea how hot that is? The idea that you would *choose* to do something you don’t like because you want to make me happy? That is…” He groaned, and the sound combined with how vividly red his face was certainly made it clear how hot he thought it was. Neal would have to remember that.

Neal had the sudden thought that he wished it wasn’t against protocol for him to stroke his own dick, an idea that really surprised him since he usually tried to avoid thinking too much about his own erection during this stuff. Peter had a very strange effect on him. Very, very strange.

His master was working himself now, lashed fluttering and breath coming fast as he yanked at himself almost violently, a desperate feel to the motion. Neal had a feeling that the man was right on the edge, and that it would be coming any second now. He took a deep breath and tried to relax, letting his mouth drop in case Peter wanted to try and take aim. God knew the man spent enough time trying to toss wadded up paper in trash baskets.

Peter let out a moan, his shoulders stiffening and his head dropping back as his hips jerk forward. His hand was clenched around his cock, only a few inches from Neal’s face, and ejaculate spattered across the slave’s face, one shot landing on his cheek, the next spattering along his forehead, and the last making it in his mouth and across his lips.

A wash of embarrassment came over Neal as the stuff dripped off his forehead onto his lashes, but he pointedly choked the thoughts down, swallowing them along with the semen in his mouth as and focused on Peter’s strong, muscular body twitching above him.

Neal forced himself to lick the hot, sticky saltiness off his lips, something he had generally refused to do for the inmates in the prison, earning himself more than a few punches to the face, keeping his eyes locked on Peter as the man slowly relaxed, his whole body sagging and his breath beginning to slow. Neal had been good for Jones, accepting that cleaning up after his masters like this was one of the things his mouth was for, but strangely enough he didn’t feel that same defeated acquiescence right now. Even though it made his cheeks burn, Neal wanted this man to know that he was willing to swallow his pride and take whatever Master gifted him with, no matter how it made him feel.

Peter was staring down now almost dreamily at Neal, eyes full of some emotion that the slave couldn’t name if he tried. It was like some strange mix of need and hope and appreciation and happiness. It was more than a little weird. Masters liked his mouth, sure, but they didn’t usually look at him like *that* afterward.

Neal lay still, uncertain whether or not he was allowed to sit up, as Peter continued to study him like he was trying to memorize the image or something.

“You should take a picture,” Neal said after a moment, and Peter chuckled, a dumb grin spreading across his face.

“You’re so beautiful, it could definitely win some awards.”

“No, seriously,” Neal said, ignoring the heavy pounding of his heart as he spoke the words. “You should take a picture. Then you can look at this whenever you want.”

Peter’s grin faded a little, though the expression left behind was no less intense, and his eyes drilled down into Neal. After several seconds of staring, Peter turned, reaching out and grabbing the trousers he’d dropped to the floor. He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket, then settled back on Neal’s chest, positioning his hips so his slowly softening cock was brushing Neal’s face again.

Neal stared up at him, his cheeks red but his smile only slightly strained, as the man snapped a picture, immortalizing the image of Neal with the results of Peter’s pleasure spattered across his face. The embarrassment hit him again, hard and deep, but Neal took a deep breath, acknowledged the emotion, and let the feeling go. Yes, it was embarrassing, but it was worth it to see that strange mish-mash of emotions on Peter’s face and to know that it was Neal’s willingness to let his master have his pride that put it there.

“God, Neal, you’re so hot,” Peter muttered, moving backward until he was straddling Neal’s legs instead of his chest, laughter in his eyes. “How did I manage to deny that for so many years?”

“I have no idea, Master,” Neal said with a smile, making the man chuckle.

Neal was trying to decide whether or not he should sit up or wait for permission to move when he felt a sudden warmth on his cock, a gasp escaping from Neal’s mouth as Peter dropped his head and wrapped his lips firmly around the tip. Neal let out a cry, jerking his hips back in a less than dignified way and scrambling into a sitting position, pulling his legs up to block his crotch.

“Master, what are you doing?!” Neal said, heart pounding and blood rushing to his head. Well, the blood that wasn’t down in his dick. 

Peter looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “Um, I thought it was pretty self-explanatory there.”

Neal breathed in deeply, trying to calm his pounding heart as he stared at the man with wide eyes.

Okay, Neal knew there were masters out there who liked to play the ‘my slave loves this so much’ game when fucking, but did Peter really want to suck his cock? He had never in all his years as a fuckling had a master *or* a mistress interested in sucking his cock, something he had been very grateful for considering that the training he had received on the topic was not exactly pleasant.

Trainers performed oral sex on slaves for only a few reasons, none of which were particularly fun. Oral sex was most commonly used during a male slave’s training in orgasming only on verbal command. Neal still remembered being that teenaged boy with his balls bound in a metal cage half their size, his youthful hormones used to force him into arousal despite the pain. It was almost impossible to separate the memories of his trainer’s mouth on him and the vicious stabbing of the needle in his scrotum every time he neared orgasm. Once he’d actually lost the battle and cum in the man’s mouth. He’d spent the next week eating nothing but bodily fluids, getting his trainer’s semen in a cup instead of meals. Yum.

“Neal, you okay?” Peter asked, and Neal swallowed hard, trying to fight down the fear rising in his gut.

If his master wanted to put his mouth on him, Neal should let him. But, honestly, the slave would rather star in a bukake film with twenty dudes coming on his face than have Peter suck his cock. Cum all over his face was just embarrassing, a small blow to his admittedly large ego. The idea of a free man sucking his dick was terrifying. 

The protocol for a free man performing oral sex on a male slave flat out set a boy up to fail. No thrusting, no moaning, no leaking, and definitely no coming. Basically you were supposed to be a dildo made out of flesh, and the punishments for being anything else generally involved some sort of torture of the genitals followed by a good amount of time spent locked in a male chastity device.

“Master,” Neal said quietly, though his heart was thumping so loudly he was sure Peter could hear it, “there’s really no need for you to… do that. The arousal will go away soon.”

Peter looked at him strangely. “Are you actually turning down a blow job? I didn’t think there was a man on earth who would do that.”

“I’m not a man,” Neal reminded him, glancing down at his cock. It was still hard, no surprise there—he couldn’t get off on command, but his erection wouldn’t start to fade until he was away from his master for awhile. “And I… I really don’t like them much.”

His master’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “You don’t like blow jobs? Seriously?” He shook his head, looking amused. “What, did that Kate chick bite or something?”

Neal made a face at the idea of Mistress Kate performing oral sex on him. “Even if I was a free man, I would *never* have asked her to do that,” he said in disgust. “Unlike some people, *I* have respect for women.”

Peter scowled, looking annoyed. “If you’re trying to imply that I don’t respect women, I really don’t appreciate that.”

“I’m sorry, Master,” Neal said, wincing. Couldn’t he ever keep his damn mouth shut? What the hell was wrong with him? Hadn’t he learned *anything* from his little lesson with Jones? “That wasn’t what I meant, I swear. I’m really sorry, Master. I’m a dumb, mouthy bitch. I’m sorry, sir.”

There was a long pause, during which Neal seriously considered throwing himself onto the floor at the man’s feet, then Peter said in a slow voice, “It’s okay, Neal. I accept your apology.”

“Thank you, Master,” Neal said, more than a little relieved. He *had* to start watching his damn mouth or he was going to end up in that damn bathroom again for sure. Neal licked his lips. “I’m sorry for my attitude, Master. If you want to… do that…” He released his knees, which he’d been clutching tight to his chest, and slowly extended his legs, mouth in a tight line as he shifted into a position to better display his assets. “Please, make use of me as it pleases you.”

Peter sighed, eyes rolling, probably at that admittedly snobby wording of that bit of protocol. He really *did* have a lot in common with Moz. “Neal, if you’re not going to enjoy it, what’s the point?” He moved forward, kneeling between Neal’s spread legs, then he reached out, hand gently wrapping around his slave’s cock. “What if I just touched you?” Peter said in a low voice. “Would you enjoy that?”

Neal bit the inside of his cheek, face reddening slightly as he glanced down at the big fingers lightly grasping his cock. His body was definitely interested, aching and hard in a way that was making him feel almost lightheaded, but inside… Inside he was simply embarrassed by the fact that his fuckling body was hard and would *remain* hard until he was either given permission to come or his master allowed him to leave his presence. 

Even if Peter slapped his shaft as hard as he could or pinched his balls or bit his scrotum, Neal would remain hard and ready, a show of devotion and worship to his master. He should know—his trainers had done all of those things when working on this particular lesson.

“Yes, Master,” Neal finally said, voice soft. It was true in a way—he would physically enjoy it—but mentally being brought to climax by a master’s hand was always a strange mix of pleasure and humiliation. However, it was obvious Peter really wanted to see him orgasm.

Peter smiled at him, fingers tightening until his hand was wrapped all the way around Neal’s shaft. He basically disappeared in there, Peter’s hands were so massively oversized, and Neal’s breath caught as the warm pressure engulfed him. The agent’s hands were lightly calloused from the shooting range, creating the sensation of rough spots along the soft, sweaty palm. 

Neal was close, so close, semen leaking from the slit of his cock and his balls aching, but at the same time he was as far away as you could get. His groin throbbed, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, and he felt like he was teetering on the edge but couldn’t quite tip over the precipice.

His master’s thumb rubbed circles along the head of his cock, and Neal whimpered, eyes watering as the blood pounded in his temples and the muscles in his thighs spasmed. So close, yet so far away.

Peter reached up with his other hand, tipping Neal’s face up and cupping it in his palm, wiping a tear that had escaped onto Neal’s cheek with his thumb.

“Neal, are you okay?”

Neal sniffed and nodded, staring into his master’s eyes. “Yes, Master. I… I can’t come until you give me permission. Out loud. Like you have to say it, or I can’t do it. It’s how I was trained.”

Peter’s eyes widened slightly at that, his hand pausing in its ministrations. “Wow. It seems there’s quite a few things they can train that I didn’t think were possible.”

Neal gave him a tight smile, hoping he looked brave. “Yes, Master. You may have gotten a poor deal when it comes to respectfulness, but your slave is very well trained for sex.” He paused, then added quietly. “As someone who has trained problem slaves, I can tell you that it’s not unusual for a bad attitude and intense sexual training to come as a package deal.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, voice sounding sad. “That doesn’t surprise me.” He began stroking again, moving his hand steadily up and down. Neal sucked in a sharp breath, lower lip trembling as the pleasure rolled over his body and, once again, he found himself slamming into a brick wall just seconds from freedom.

“Shh, Neal,” Peter said, as the slave whimpered, wiping away another tear as it escaped from Neal’s lashes. He leaned forward, laying a soft kiss on the boy’s shaking lips. “Relax and feel, okay? I’m going to let you come, buddy, just hold on for me, okay? This is a good thing, Neal. I know that it hasn’t been for you in the past, but it can be, and I want it to be. Knowing that you’re hard for me, that at least your body wants to be with me, is such a beautiful thing. I know you don’t really want your master, I know that they probably did fucked up things to make your body respond like you want your master when really you just want to make it through this alive. I also know that it probably makes you feel ashamed, but it’s okay to take what pleasure that you can from it, Neal, if you want to.”

“I do want you, Master,” Neal lied, a little desperately. How the hell did a man who knew nothing about everyday slavery understand this so well? 

“Really, Neal?” Peter said softly, his doubt obvious, and Neal bit his lip, looking away.

“I… I want to make you happy so that I’ll be safe with you,” he said after a moment, voice embarrassingly childlike. “That’s kind of the same thing, right?”

Peter nodded, though his eyes were sad. “I want you to feel good, Neal,” he said, hand speeding up in his strokes. “I want you to get some pleasure from this. Come for me, Neal. You have my permission, buddy. Come for me.”

Neal let out a cry, body shuddering and jaw locking as his hips thrust upward of their own accord, hot and sticky ejaculate shooting out and running down Peter’s hand. Neal’s hips jerked several times, the muscles in his thighs clenched painfully tight, and he had a feeling they were going to be sore tomorrow from the strain.

Tears squeezed out of Neal’s eyes, his face twisted up in what he was sure was a very unattractive way as the physical pleasure washed over him and the mental torment hit. 

Fuckling, slut, whore, bitch, dog, cunt, animal, pig. Thing that comes for master, cheap toy that comes on master’s cue. The words rolled through his mind, beating him down, slamming him into his place, reminding him of what he was—

“Neal, look at me.”

Neal opened his eyes, staring up at his master. Peter slipped his wet fingers into his own mouth, sucking Neal’s semen off like it was frosting from Rainbows and Buttercupcakes, then he placed a big hand on each side of Neal’s face.

“Neal, that was awesome. You’re awesome.” Peter leaned forward, pulling Neal’s head toward him, and kissed him deeply.

For a moment Neal just sat there, feeling too overwhelmed to even think about what to do, then he lifted his own arms, wrapping them around Peter’s neck and returning the kiss. It seemed to last forever, a salty exchange of saliva and sweat and semen, before Peter finally pulled back.

Neal smiled up his master, who was smiling right back down at him, leaving Neal feeling unusually warm inside. 

“Thank you, Master,” he murmured.

“You’re welcome, Neal,” Peter whispered in return before pressing his lips to the slave again.

“Well, gentlemen, what *have* we been up to this evening?”

Neal let out a yelp and Peter practically fell over backward as a wickedly smirking Ms. El shut the door behind her and tossed her purse onto Peter’s Lay-Z-Boy.

“So, I’m guessing that no animals were harmed in the making of this show? Where *is* Satchmo, by the way?”


	33. Fetch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which El dreams of slicing off balls, Neal plays with balls, and Jones gets a pet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... long time, no post. I am going to make an effort to fit a monthly chapter into my schedule since I was re-watching White Collar, decided to re-read this fic, then got pissed at the author for not finishing his damn story. (Yes, that would be me pissed at myself.) I have surgery on July 6th, so I will aim for another chapter before then. If that's a no-go, look for one at the start of August.
> 
> I am also going to return to my effort to clean up old chapters, removing repetitive blabber and thoughts. (There really is only so many times a character can think the same thing in a different way in the same chapter, LOL!)
> 
> Also, let me know if you guys would be interested in seeing Sarah in this fic. I know she's not in the first season, but she was always my favorite of "the girlfriends," as I tend to call all the ladies but Diana, June, and El in this series.

El breathed in through the nose, exhaling again slowly from the mouth. According to her yoga instructor, this was supposed to help calm the nerves.

Talk about a load of bullshit.

“Explain it to me one more time,” she said, doing her best to remain calm and controlled. “Also, if you could add in why I shouldn’t grab my favorite carving knife and serve a certain someone’s balls up on an escargot tray at my next party, that would be wonderful.”

Peter winced a little then sighed, running a hand through his hair.

El shifted impatiently in the bed where she’d been (rather suspiciously) tucked in, massaged, and fed many a glass of pinot noir before this little conversation had come about. Because heaven forbid Peter call her immediately when he’d found out that one of their best friends had apparently _raped_ their slave so that she could make a small alteration to her route home, rip off the man’s balls, and bring them back in her Gucci bag.

Okay, that might have actually been the reason Peter’s _hadn’t_ called her immediately.

There was also the fact that she would have entered the house roaring, which most certainly would have exacerbated the terrified look on Neal’s face when she’d walked in on him and Peter post-coitus. Not to mention ruining the grateful-bordering-on-happy smile he’d flashed her after El wrapped her arms around him, gave him a big kiss on the lips, and told her slave how very proud she was that he was connecting so well with his new master.

Still, this whole situation was completely insane! Never in a thousand years would she have expected _Clinton_ to be the sort who would rape and humiliate Neal! Until that night, he’d been one of the few agents she would have trusted with her life.

“I know, El, I know,” Peter murmured, tipping back his third—or fourth?—beer. His words were starting to come out slurred, that was for sure. “I want to kill him, too. I mean that I literally want to kill the man. You know I would never say that lightly. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the short time Neal has been around, it’s that my instincts on this stuff aren’t top notch.”

“He blindfolded him, dragged him to a SlaveMart bathroom, forced him to have oral sex in a stall, washed his face in the toilet, then took him back to work as if nothing happened. I think your instincts are right on here, hon.” El’s voice cracked on the words, and Peter squeezed her leg comfortingly.

“Except that Neal went out of his way to tell me this in a way that ensured I _wouldn’t_ go running off after Jones with my gun drawn. He _knew_ what kind of reaction I’d have after the whole thing with that asshole Agent Johnson molesting him in the fucking closet, and he wanted me to see this differently.”

El’s brow furrowed. “Because we’re friends with Clinton?” She shook her head. “ _Were_ friends with Clinton, I mean. Even if his balls don’t end up on my serving tray, he is most definitely off the Christmas party list.”

“No, that’s not it,” Peter said, frowning. “It’s hard to explain, hon. I don’t understand the logic people have when it comes to slaves, and what Neal said… it fell into that realm of thought. But, basically, Neal believes that Jones was trying to help him.”

El opened her mouth to protest, and Peter held up a hand.

“I am _not_ saying that Jones was helping him. I’m not even ready to agree that Jones actually thought he was helping Neal—not until I talk to the bastard—but I know Neal believes that the asshole was trying to help him by raping him in a SlaveMart bathroom, and not because he was too frightened to say otherwise, the way he was with that hat stealing fool. He was so calm and collected, it was like he was quoting a textbook. Hell, he might have actually been quoting from a textbook. Did you know he’s pulled cons as a CST?”

El’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. And he claims he trained slaves using the same techniques Jones was using, if you can bear to call that sick shit ‘techniques.’ My first instinct is to shoot Jones between the eyes, followed by beating him to a pulp, followed by arresting his ass. But, hell, I can’t do any of those things.” Her hubby’s voice held obvious disgust. “All I can do is either address the issue with Jones and hope it works out or have Jones transferred off the team.”

“But either of those things could have a negative impact on Neal,” El said, quickly coming to the same conclusions he must have. “That other agent was different—what he did was obviously disobeying your orders regarding your slave. But when you told Clinton and Neal to ‘work it out,’ you were pretty much giving Clinton permission to use these ‘training techniques’ on Neal.” El grimaced at the words. “At least in the eyes of fellow agents. So even if you just talk to Clinton, it might make him bitter toward Neal. But if you transfer him off the team, it will definitely make the rest of the team bitter toward you.”

Peter shook his head. “If that were true, Jones would be out of the office in a flash. But the team is loyal to me. There is a good chance that their anger wouldn’t be aimed in my direction.”

“It would be directed at Neal,” El said with a moan, dropping her head back against the pillows.

Peter nodded, looking exhausted. “How is it possible that Neal gets raped and office politics are what’s dictating the repercussions?”

El let out a bitter laugh. “Now you know what it’s like to be a woman in an all-male office. So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Peter said quietly. “I just don’t know. What _can_ I do? Neal is a slave and, if he’s right, then what Jones did is a perfectly normal response, something any freeman told to ‘deal with’ a misbehaving office slave would do.”

El slammed her wineglass down onto the bedside table, the other hand balling into a fist as tears rose up out of nowhere. “It’s not fair!” she shouted, all the emotion she’d been holding back as she worked so hard to be the calm mediator between Peter and Neal suddenly rising to the surface. “It’s just not fair, Peter!” The tears trickled down her cheeks as her hubby climbed across the bed, wrapping his arms around her. She buried her face in his wide chest. “We live in a country that’s supposed to be based on freedom and liberty, yet people can do horrible things to other people and just get away with it! And their only excuse is that someone somewhere randomly decided that certain people aren’t actually people! It’s horrible and it makes no sense and it just isn’t fair! How could I have not known about this? SlaveMart has been around since I was a kid! There are slaves at every event I host and in the houses of every person I know! How could I have been so fucking blind? This world is horrible!”

“I know, sweetie,” Peter said, voice hoarse. “I know, and I feel the same way. You are so right. Until we took Neal in, I honestly thought I was just a normal guy who preferred to steer away from slavery in my house, but the truth is that I’m a liberationist. We both are. Not because we want to march around protesting slavery, but because we think slaves are people. That is all it takes to be a liberationist in this world. Because other people… they really don’t believe that. SlaveMart and the other big corporations have spread their propaganda well. Hitler would be jealous. It’s wrong, and I hate it, but there’s not anything we can do. Except help Neal. We _can_ do that. But to do that, we have to figure out what’s best for him in _this_ world, not the place we wish we lived in.”

El let out a choked laugh, looking up at the man she loved. “Wasn’t it me saying that to you just yesterday? When did we switch places?”

Peter settled a kiss on her temple. “When I came to my senses and gave you a chance to say all the stuff you’ve been bottling up because I’m an idiot. I’m sorry, El. You were right all along, and I’m going to do my best to help Neal with what I have to work with, not with what I wish was there. And that starts by figuring out what to do with Jones—without hurting Neal more in the process.”

 

o o o

 

Neal’s day started with a smile. If it was a little smug, well, it was probably deserved considering he’d finally taken the first step to success with Operation: Woo Master. The fact that he wasn’t really sure what had prompted said step’s success could be worried about later. Right now, he was perfectly happy to celebrate his win with a grin. He tipped his hat to a sweet young probie as she walked by, giggling at his gesture, and then let out a sigh as he settled down in his chair, feeling satisfied.

This, of course, lasted approximately three minutes and twenty seconds, according to the clock hanging on the far wall. Neal really should have known from experience that it wouldn’t last. Something bad always happened at the FBI. The ironic part being that it wasn’t his spot on the Most Wanted list that caused all the problems. No, it was the collar around his neck that lured Lady Trouble to his doorstep. Or, in this case, to his cubicle.

“Come with me, boy,” Agent Jones commanded as he walked past, not even bothering to pause, as if there was no question whether or not Neal would follow. He was right, of course. After yesterday, there was no chance Neal would refuse any direction from the powerful man. In fact, he practically stumbled from his seat, actually jogging to catch up with the agent, an action that drew sneers from several other agents.

At this point, Neal didn’t give a damn what they thought. He was much more interested in making sure Jones acknowledged his obedience. He did _not_ want to return to the SlaveMart bathroom today.

Neal was actually a little surprised that Jones was wandering around the office this morning at all. Considering the look on Peter’s face when Neal revealed Jones did some training behind his master’s back, he’d been a little worried that the man would be hauling Jones to his office and making a failed attempt to fire him, the way he did the hat stealer.

Luckily, it seemed Neal had managed to convince his master that Jones was only following protocol, which was most definitely a good thing. The hat stealer was a fool. Jones most certainly was not. The _last_ thing Neal wanted was this man coming after him with revenge on the mind.

Now all he had to do was decide whether or not he should mention to Jones that Peter knew what happened. If Neal did mention it, Jones might get angry for tattling on him and take it out on Neal. But if Neal _didn’t_ mention it and Jones found out later, he’d be hauling Neal back to the SlaveMart bathroom for sure.

Talk about a lose-lose situation.

Jones came to a halt in front a door at the end of a side hall. Neal had assumed it was a maintenance closet since he’d never seen anyone but the Bobs enter it during his days at the FBI, and he actually choked as he stepped through the door and found himself in the middle of an interrogation room, complete with peeling white paint, dirty grey carpet, a single metal chair in the middle, and a long one-way mirror on the far wall.

“A-agent Jones, what am I—“

The door slammed shut behind them, lock clicking, and Neal found himself facing a man who suddenly seemed about a thousand feet tall.

“Don’t ask questions, boy,” Jones said, not unkindly but not kindly, either. His voice was the careless tone Neal knew from training, and when he said “careless,” he really meant careless. As in completely neutral, but not in a faked or cautious way. It was simply the voice used when you didn’t care whether the other person—or, in this case, the other _thing_ —lived or died. “Unless the question is relevant to a case that we are seeking information on, you have no interest.”

Not “you will show no interest,” but “you have no interest.” Neal looked down, face reddening as he forced himself to swallow the thousands of questions that continuously whirled around his hyper-intelligent brain and focus on the one thing he hoped might save him.

“Agent Jones, permission to speak in honor of my master?”

Jones raised an eyebrow then gave him a sharp nod. “You will call me Trainer. And yes, you may speak.”

“Thank you, Trainer. Master and Mistress clearly stated that I am to ask questions if I am confused since they are inexperienced with slaves.”

Jones nodded again. “Understandable, and of course your master and mistress’ preferences come first. However, you will follow slave protocol and refrain from asking questions unrelated to a case when you are with me.”

Neal nodded, shivering at the subtle implication that he might be spending quite a lot of time with Jones. “Y-yes, Trainer.”

He flinched a little as Jones reached out and ran a hand through his hair and down his face. “Shh, it’s okay,” the man murmured like he was talking to a scared puppy. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, boy. I’m here to help you.”

“Thank you, Trainer,” Neal said automatically, though inside he was simmering at the indignity of being stroked and talked to like he was an idiot. Here to help him? Only if your definition of helping was forcing your dick down someone’s throat.

Jones reached out with his other hand, capturing Neal’s face between them and staring down into his eyes. Neal tried to hide his fear, but he obviously wasn’t doing a very good job, because Jones said, “What did I just tell you, boy?”

Neal swallowed down the lump in his throat, but the words still came out hoarse. “You said I don’t have to be afraid of you, sir. You said you’re here to help me, sir.”

“Good boy,” Jones crooned, and that was all Neal could take.

He felt his mouth opening, and before he could even think about shutting up, the words were out, along with a big, sassy smirk. “I can bark and sit and fetch, too, sir.”

Neal’s eyes went wide with horror, and it took everything he had not to fling himself down on the ground and beg for forgiveness—something that would only make it worse since his face was still trapped in Jones’ hands and he didn’t have permission to pull away. What the hell was wrong with him?! Why couldn’t he keep his damn mouth shut?! He was locked in an out of the way interrogation room with a man who could crush him with one hand, for God’s sake, and what does he do? He mouths off like a fucking fool!

Neal braced himself for the strike, but it didn’t come. Instead, Jones’ hands fell away and the man nodded, taking a step back.

“An excellent skill set, boy. Let’s see it in action, then.”

Neal frowned, confused, then tensed as Jones reached into his pocket and pulled out the rubber band ball that Neal had “borrowed” from the man’s desk drawer earlier that week—the one Jones had seen over his shoulder when he’d been talking to Peter at Neal’s desk.

Jones chuckled as he settled onto the metal chair in the middle of the room, tossing the ball casually into the air. “This wasn’t actually what I brought this ball for, but you’re the one who said you could bark and sit and fetch, boy. When a slave speaks, it should only be to convey important information. Obviously you felt this was important for your trainer to know, so I want to see these skills for myself. Get down on your hands and knees and show me. I am looking forward to seeing your potential in this area, puppy. Show me what a good little pet you are. Don’t you want to be Trainer’s pet?”

Neal clenched his fists, breath coming too fast, making him feel lightheaded. The little Mozzie on his shoulder was screaming at him to tell the bastard to fuck off, but what good would that do? He was locked in this room with a freeman who had every right to see him crawl on the floor like a dog. In fact, according to every moment of slave training he’d ever had, he _deserved_ to crawl on the floor like a dog considering the statement he’d made. If this was all the punishment Jones had planned for his slip of the tongue, Neal should consider himself truly lucky.

Unfortunately, his ego was not so easily convinced, and he crossed his hands over his chest, shaking his head like the arrogant prick he was—exactly the kind of ridiculous behavior he’d been preaching against the other day in the kitchen with Ian.

“I-I can’t…”

“You can,” Jones said firmly. “And you will. It wasn’t a question. You will get down on the floor and crawl to me. There’s no decision to be made.”

Neal gritted his teeth and dropped to the floor in front of the agent, not sure who he hated more: Jones or himself.

“Good boy. Now, you bragged that you can bark. A good slave doesn’t lie to his master. Give me a bark.”

Neal’s hands scraped against the rough carpet as he dug his nails into it, the humiliation chokingly thick. A moment’s pause then he sucked in a breath and let out a tiny, pitiful bark. More like a yip, really.

Apparently Jones wasn’t impressed, because he leaned over and gave him a slap to the face.

“Bad boy. Bark!”

Neal’s cheek felt like it was on fire and drops of sweat appeared on his forehead. His arms and legs trembled with shame as he squeezed his eyes shut and let out a bark loud enough it would have made Satchmo jealous.

“Good boy!” Jones cried out, rubbing both hands though his hair and petting him as if he’d done the most impressive trick ever. “That’s a good boy! Don’t look so sad. You’re a good boy. You should be happy. Now… fetch!” He tossed the rubber band ball across the room, and Neal turned, stumbling awkwardly after it on all fours. He reached it, looked down, and let out a choked sob. He couldn’t do this. It was too humiliating. Except he’d done so much worse, so many times. But that was then, and this was now. And he couldn’t. Now here, not now. He just couldn’t. But he had no choice. After all, it wasn’t as if he could escape, and it was what a good slave would do—

“STOP THINKING!”

Neal jumped at the sudden shout from Jones, his eyes going wide as the man’s feet seemed to appear like magic before him. He whimpered—not unlike a dog, sadly enough—as Jones pulled him to his feet, staring down at him with a surprisingly compassionate expression. Certainly not the look a slave expected when they were disobeying a trainer’s direct command.

“Why are you thinking, Neal?” Jones’ voice was soft, and his hands settled gently on Neal’s shoulders, rubbing at them softly. Neal couldn’t resist leaning slightly into the touch. “Why are you taking all this time to think? You don’t _need_ to think. Just do what you’re told. All of this pain you feel? All of the struggle? It’s because you have to think everything through. Stop _thinking_ , Neal, and do what Trainer says.”

Neal dropped his face, trying to avoid the man’s prying gaze, but Jones tipped his chin back up.

“I know, it hurts your ego to obey someone. You want to make your own decisions. But you can’t, Neal. That should be obvious from what a mess your life is.”

Neal felt a flash of anger at the words, as justified as they technically were.

“You don’t have to feel ashamed, Neal. You’re only a slave. Stop worrying about how you look when it comes to smarts or style or sass, and remember that you are judged on only one thing: how well you please your master. And right now, you are doing a lousy job. Right now, you look like a very bad slave.”

Neal flinched as the words triggered emotions deep inside him, touching on wounds that dated back farther than he could even remember. Shame washed over him, and it was a thousand times worse than the humiliation of having his ego treaded on. A bad slave. He was a very bad slave.

“There’s a lot of pain there,” Jones said, trailing a finger over Neal’s heart, “and I can tell you’re very broken inside. I want to help you, pet. I care about helping you. I want you to be happy with what you have, and I want you to be content with who you are instead of constantly having to war with a thousand contradictory feelings. So please, push away all the thoughts in that oh-so-brilliant mind of yours and focus on the part of you that finds happiness in pleasing your betters. “

Neal looked at him in surprise. That was two times now that Jones had pointed out how smart he was, once here and the other in SlaveMart. He’d never had a master—much less a trainer—even passingly acknowledge him for that before.

Jones smiled. “Yes, Neal, you are intelligent. _Very_ intelligent. That brilliant mind is an important tool for your masters, but you have to come to terms with the fact that it’s not what makes you special. That’s why no trainer ever mentions it. Nobody cares but you—you aren’t graded on that. So while you’re trying to impress people with your smarts, they’re busy being turned off by your terrible behavior. The ability to bring your master real happiness is what makes a slave special, even if that means sacrificing your dignity for him. And in the end, it will bring you happiness, too, because you’ll know you’re being the best you can be. I want you to be happy, pet. Don’t you want to make _me_ happy?”

There was a long pause, then Neal nodded, tears rising up in his eyes. “Yes. Yes, Trainer, I want to make you happy. And Master. I want to make him happy, too.”

Jones smiled down at him, kindly this time. “Let’s start small. It will make me very happy if you get down on your hands and knees and fetch this ball with a big smile on your face—a _real_ smile not one of your conman grins. Can you do that for me?”

“I-I don’t know, Trainer,” Neal admitted in a whisper as he braced himself for a slap.Instead he found himself being pulled against Jones’ chest, held tight against the man.

“That’s the good boy I’m looking for, pet. See how you told me the truth? The real truth? You could have lied to me, said yes, and been punished when you couldn’t do what I asked of you—I bet that’s happened plenty of times. Instead you admitted what you can’t do, and so I’m going to ask you this instead: Can you fetch this ball because you want to please me, no matter how humiliating it might be to the conman called Neal Caffrey? Don’t lie to me. If you can’t ignore the emotions that keep you from being the best you can be, then we’ll call this exercise a failure and move onto something else. I will be disappointed in you, but I will not punish you for it, not if you tell me the truth. So what do you say, my pet? Can you do that?”

Neal took a deep breath and sunk down to his knees, looking up into Jones’ dark brown eyes. “Yes, Trainer,” he whispered, doing his best to hide the shakiness in his voice. “Yes, sir, I can do that for you.”

The smile on Jones’ face was like the sun coming up, and the slave in Neal was filled with happiness, the emotion overcoming whatever shred of reason the conman had left.

“Fetch,” the trainer said. And the slave did.

 

o o o

 

Peter had been joking when he suggested that Diana that cuff him to the table in the viewing room, but she had taken his request seriously, and now he was very, very glad for her decision. If she hadn’t he would probably have run into the room with his sidearm drawn ten minutes ago, and most definitely once Jones started calling Neal his “pet.”

Who the hell did the fucker think he was, calling Peter’s slave “pet”?!

Peter’s fingernails left indentions in the wood of the table as he watched the horror show unfolding before him.

Neal was on the floor, picking up a rubber band ball with his goddamn _mouth_ while Jones sat on a chair, clapping for him and petting him like a damn _dog_!

“Boss, you need to relax,” Diana murmured, sounding more than a little worried. Possibly about his sanity. “This was your idea, remember?”

And a stupid idea at that! What the hell had he been thinking, deciding to try for a “middle of the road” solution that might create a working relationship between Jones and Neal without leaving anyone feeling bitter or scorned? Despite Peter’s promise to himself to keep an open mind, this wasn’t going to work. No way, no how. He was going to have to get rid of Jones, no question about it. Which was actually pretty depressing considering Peter had thought his early morning conversation with the man had gone surprisingly well, especially considering his incredible urge to shoot the other agent dead.

 

_“Hello, Jones,” Peter said from behind his desk, the words coming out stiff and cold._

_Jones frowned as he closed the door behind him and moved to sit down in the chair opposite Peter. “Hello, Peter. What’s up?”_

_Peter took a deep breath, doing his very best to control his emotions. He was the boss here; dealing with situations like this was his job. Well, possibly Hughes’ job, but he wasn’t about to hand over anything this intimately related to Neal to the man, no matter how good of a friend he was._

_“I heard what happened between you and Neal at the SlaveMart.”_

_Jones’ face brightened, and he actually grinned—definitely not the response that Peter was expecting. “He told you? He actually told you? That’s fantastic! I honestly didn’t think he would.”_

_Peter floundered, feeling completely out of his depth. Jones_ wanted _Neal to tell Peter he’d raped him in a bathroom? Had he dropped off the Earth and fallen into Wonderland here? “Wait… You wanted him to tell me?”_

 _“Of course I did,” Jones said confidently. “Slaves are required—by law, actually—to inform their legal masters of any sexual intercourse outside of those bonds. So by not telling you, Neal would have violated slave protocol in a major way and would have had to be punished. I set up the situation in a way that he would believe I_ didn’t _want you to know in order to test his loyalty to you and his obedience to protocol. Something I felt needed to be tested after the mess with Agent Johnson. I am really glad to know he did what he was supposed to do. Apparently he actually learned something from that first fiasco.”_

 _Peter swallowed hard. So this was the sort of thing Neal meant when he asked if he was being “tested” when offered things slaves didn’t usually have. Make them think you want them to do something they’re not technically supposed to do then punish them for it. Apparently people really did test their slaves like that, if Jones really was a reliable example of the average slaveowner’s practices. And if Jones truly_ was _a good example, it might actually be valuable to have him around considering that Neal wasn’t exactly forthcoming on the unwritten rules of slavery. You know, if Peter could ever get over his urge to kill him._

_“Jones, I am going to ask you something, and I need you to be as up front with me about it as possible. One hundred percent truthful, whether you think I will like it or not.” Peter narrowed his eyes. “And believe me when I say that your job here depends on it.”_

_Jones’ eyes went wide and his whole body stiffened. He cleared his throat. “Sure thing, Peter. You know I’m always upfront with you. That’s why you hired me to begin with.”_

_Peter frowned, trying to figure out the best way to phrase this. “You know that I’m not a… slave type of guy. I’ve never kept slaves, and I don’t have any experience keeping slaves. I don’t know anything about the training of slaves except what’s illegal. That makes it difficult with Neal, since I am always doing things that confuse him, acting in ways that slaveowners don’t usually act. I guess. I don’t know, because I don’t know many slaveowners.”_

_Jones nodded encouragingly. “That’s one of the unique things you bring to the department. You see slavery in a whole different light, and it actually makes you better at getting into the heads of rebel slaves and of slavers who don’t follow the law.”_

_“So here’s my question for you: Are_ you _an average slave guy? And by that what I mean is the way you treat slaves what would be considered the “norm” in society?”_

_“Hm…” Jones cocked his head thoughtfully. “That’s a tough one, since I also see slaves in a little bit different light than most people. I was a re-trainer in the Navy, meaning that they brought rebel slaves to me and I handled their re-training. So in a way I am probably more likely to call out poor behavior in a slave than the Average Joe. However, I’m less likely to punish the behavior when I do so. Most people will just beat their slave when it’s bad. I prefer to point out the misbehavior and then work on correcting it in a re-training session. I try and get into the slave’s head, figure out what they’re thinking, and then work to mold that thinking into what a good slave needs. Unlike the Big Box slaver trainers, though, I care about slaves that I train. In the Navy we considered them more than just slaves. Sort of like our human pets. We didn’t want them punished, so we worked hard to help them correct bad habits so they wouldn’t be hurt. To answer your question, I suppose I’m a little more forgiving than your average slaveowner. Instead of beating slaves over and over and over in an endless cycle of misbehavior and punishment, I like to try and fix what’s wrong there so you can skip the punishment all together, making for a better functioning master-slave relationship.”_

_Peter blinked. Jones considered himself_ more _forgiving? So what he did to Neal wouldn’t even be considered_ harsh _?“And when it comes to… slave protocol, as everybody calls it… the way you think slaves should act is the, um, norm?”_

_Jones’ brow furrowed. “Yes, it is. You really don’t even know slave protocol, Peter? I mean, it’s pretty basic. Slaves should be silent except when spoken to, should not draw attention to themselves, should follow their master’s orders or the orders of freemen without question—assuming they don’t contradict the master’s orders—and they should be completely and utterly subservient to any freeman.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “…Which I guess are all things you wouldn’t notice if you’d never had a slave. Okay, I can see how you might not know much about protocol.”_

_Peter’s hands tightened on the edge of his desk. “And allowing a freeman to haul you away and have sex with you fits into this protocol?”_

_Jones nodded, looking a little wary. “If you mean the Agent Johnson thing, yeah. You didn’t give Neal a note or make any announcement that he was off limits. Usually a slave would still be safe, but Neal has a knack for being antagonistic. That’s one of the reasons following protocol is so important—being low key and not drawing attention to itself helps keep a slave out of dangerous situations when it’s away from its master’s protection. But since Neal had no proof that you cared whether or not another freeman used him, he was at risk. Of course, it’s considered very rude to do something like that to another man’s slave, and in this case it was definitely Johnson’s way of flashing you the middle finger. According to the law, though, Neal was required to tell you what happened, for your safety. The fact that he waited was actually illegal.”_

_“And with you?” Peter prompted, vacillating between his anger at Jones and his guilt at having sent Neal out completely unprotected thanks to his ignorance about slavery._

_“Honestly, when you said that we should deal with it, I assumed you wanted me to correct the problem of his completely inappropriate arrogance when around me. So I did something I believed would improve his behavior while also testing whether or not he would make the same mistake he did with Johnson again. And I’m very happy to hear that he made the right choice this time.”_

_Peter took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly. His mind was whirling as he tried to figure out what the hell he was going to do. How did both Neal and Jones manage to sound completely sane_ and _out of their fucking minds on this issue? It was beyonf his comprehension. Which very well might be exactly why he needed Jones around._

_“Okay, Jones, I am going to be straight with you. I was not happy when I heard what you did to Neal. I realize I hadn’t come out and said that I didn’t want anyone else touching him sexually, but I’ll say it now. Neal is mine. When I heard what happened, I wanted to blow your brains out. El suggested cutting off your balls and serving them at one of her parties instead. Both of us think of it as rape, whatever the law says.”_

_Jones opened up his mouth, a horrified look on his face, but Peter held up a hand to stop him from speaking. He really didn’t want to hear it._

_“I get it. That is completely beyond your comprehension because you, like Neal, grew up in the world of slavery. Neal as a slave, you as a young man training slaves in the Navy. But I am not happy, not at all. I do realize, though, that the world I’ve been living in is a fantasy. I realize that while I would love to treat Neal like a freeman, the world doesn’t see him that way, and I am only going to get him hurt. I will not, however, cross that line into treating a human being like an animal or, worse, like an object. It’s not the kind of person I am, and is probably the real reason I never had any urge to own a slave to begin with. I don’t know how I feel about you personally right now, but I acknowledge it’s not all your fault that I’m feeling… a grudge, if you will. You’re one of my best agents, and I do trust you. Maybe not quite as much as I trusted you before, but again, I’m beginning to think that’s my fault, not yours. Another misunderstanding thanks to my ignorance. I don’t like being ignorant, Jones.”_

_Jones nodded, obviously not quite sure what to say to any of this, and Peter continued._

_“My wife and I were discussing what to do about this situation with you and Neal last night. We couldn’t come up with a solution that didn’t involve someone getting hurt. But based on what you’ve told me, I’m willing to take a leap of faith and make you an offer that I think might have a chance of helping not only the relationship between you and Neal, but also my ignorance when it comes to the reality of slavery.”_

_“Okay,” Jones said slowly. “I would definitely be up for that. What do you want me to do?”_

_Peter took a sip of coffee, praying silently that he wasn’t about to make the biggest mistake of his life._

_“I want you to do some training with Neal. Nothing sexual, and no extreme anything. Just basic things regarding how he should treat you, in particular, and maybe how he should try and act around the other agents since we’ve already had some problems in the office. And I want to watch while you do it.”_

_Jones frowned. “That might be a problem. If I’m training him with his master in the room, he won’t know who he’s supposed to be focused on.” He paused. “But maybe we could use the old interrogation room next to the emergency stairs? You could sit in the viewing area behind the mirror.”_

_Peter nodded. “Okay, I could deal with that. Like I said, I want to learn. But I’m serious about nothing too extreme, and_ no _sex stuff.” He grimaced at the words. “What went down at SlaveMart was unacceptable. You will_ never _touch my slave like that again, do you understand me Agent Jones? If you do, I will arrest you for every property violation I can think of, and you will sure as hell never work in this office again.”_

_“Yes, sir, I understand,” Jones said. “I’m really sorry, Peter. I had no idea you would feel that way about what I did with Neal. I swear to you it wasn’t an uncommon—or particularly harsh—training technique. If I’m doing anything you feel uncomfortable with, just knock on the door, and I’ll back off immediately, okay?”_

_“Agreed,” Peter said. “Why don’t we give it a try today, and see how it works? If it seems like it will be a fit, we can make a schedule from there.”_

  

“Boss, look at this.”

Diana’s voice wrenched Peter from his thoughts, and his eyes widened as he saw Neal held in Jones’ embrace, face buried in the agent’s neck as he let out what were obviously sobs of relief along with the words “thank you, thank you, thank you,” over and over again. After a few moments he raised his head up, just long enough for Peter to see the strained but very real smile on his face.

What the hell had he missed?

 

o o o

 

Jones smiled down at Neal as the slave brought him the little rubber band ball for what was going to be the last time. The ball was soggy from saliva, but that wasn’t why they were stopping. It was the look of acceptance in Neal’s eyes, along with the evenness of his breath and the way his flame red cheeks had transformed back into their usual pale beauty.

It had taken some time, but the slave had finally come to terms with his place, at least for the next ten minutes or so. Conman Caffrey was definitely lurking just beneath the surface, ready to stir up trouble, but Jones had him under control for at least a few more minutes. Hopefully that few more minutes was enough time for Neal to speak up and say what he needed to say, otherwise they were going to be right back where they started when Jones was forced to punish the beautiful slave for the conman’s dishonesty.

The ultimate goal was to blend the loyal, obedient, and submissive slave Neal with the brash, arrogant, and startlingly intelligent conman Caffrey, but that would be a difficult task. Conman Caffrey simply couldn’t stand to do the things that were expected of slaves, such as shutting the fuck up rather than making a sassy comment. He sure as hell wasn’t up to admitting that freemen were his betters. What made Jones feel really sorry for Neal was that the slave obviously tried _so_ hard to be good, but his ego knocked him down every time, humiliation and anger flooding his system when asked to humble himself in any way. This led to the slave acting out in ways that would invariably lead to punishment, and it was almost as bad as his propensity for overthinking absolutely every move to the point that he didn’t know up from down—because God forbid he simply do what he was told instead of _thinking_ it to death.

It honestly made Jones ache to see a slave as beautiful and capable as Neal kicking himself in the balls over and over and over again because he had been born too smart for his own good. If he was just a little less intelligent, he would have been a perfect slave with a perfect life. Instead, here he was, an escaped criminal slave headed straight for euthanasia if this contract didn’t work out—or worse yet, back to the hell that was brig slavery.

Jones had decided the moment he’d learned Neal’s last contract was in a prison that he was going to do his very best to save this boy, whatever trouble he’d caused as a criminal. Brig slavery was horrible, worse than euthanasia in Jones’ opinion, and he was not going to let this boy travel down that path again. Unfortunately, the things Peter seemed to like in Neal were the very things that got him into trouble in the first place. Peter was an amazing man, but his lack of understanding when it came to how slaves need to act in order to survive might very well be the end of Neal.

“Trainer?” The slave’s voice was hesitant, and Jones smiled down at his still kneeling form.

“Yes, pet?” Jones rather liked the moniker he’d come up with while Neal played dog for him. Simultaneously a reminder of Neal’s place in the world and a word that suggested a warm, caring relationship between two unequal partners, it very much fit how Jones personally felt about slaves, as he’d told Peter that morning.

“You said a slave should never lie, sir,” the boy said softly, and Jones nodded encouragingly, silently praying that this was the moment he’d been hoping for.

“Do you have something to confess, pet?”

Neal bit his lips, looking very nervous. No doubt he’d been up half the night debating whether he should or shouldn’t tell Jones, weighing the consequences of each decision over and over again instead of simply doing what a good slave would and tell the truth.

“Not a lie, exactly, sir, but… I should tell you… I told my master about what happened at SlaveMart yesterday.” The last words came out in a rush, and Jones had to hold back a cheer.

Thank God. He really hadn’t wanted to ruin all the progress they’d made by punishing Neal for keeping secrets from the man who was now his trainer.

“And that,” he said, ignoring Neal’s automatic flinch as he ran a hand through those luxurious curls, “is my very good boy.”

Neal’s eyes widened in shock, and Jones laughed at him, shaking his head.

“You’re brilliant, but you’re not actually very bright at all, are you, Neal?” The boy’s cheeks reddened and there was a flash of anger in his eyes. Ah yes, conman Caffrey was starting to wake.

“Don’t get upset, Neal. No one expects you to be able to think like a freeman. That’s not an insult, it’s the truth. I am so happy you told your master, pet, or I would have had to punish you for it. You know very well it’s your duty to tell your master of anyone uses you without his permission. And now that you call me trainer, it would also have been wrong to keep the fact that you told your master from me. No lies to your betters, Neal.”

“So… it was a test?” Neal’s voice was small and childlike, and Jones nodded.

“Yes, pet, it was a test. And you passed with flying colors. You’ve been a very good slave today, Neal, and I believe that you’re on the right path to being a very good slave all the time.All you have to do is put some effort into it, focusing all that attention you’ve been putting into yourself on your master.” He reached down and pulled Neal to his feet, wrapping his arms around the boy.

“I know you’re confused, Neal. Tired and angry and hurt and confused. I know that you’ve had a million different people tell you a million different things you’re supposed to be, and I know that it’s all mixed up in your head. You’re not a freeman, Neal, and I’m not going to try and pretend you are. With me, things are nice and simple. I see you as a slave, just a normal slave. You don’t have to be anything else with me. I talked to your master, and you and I are going to work together in this room on training. Your master will tell you what he wants and that may be more confusing, but in this room all you have to be is a good slave. It may not be easy for you psychologically, especially at first, but you don’t have to be confused. You don’t have to be afraid. You don’t even have to think, because you know exactly how to be a slave, don’t you, Neal?”

“Yes, Trainer,” he whispered, his voice shaky. “Yes, I know how to be a slave.”

“That’s all I am asking you to be. I’m just asking you to be yourself. Because that’s what you are, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Neal whispered.

Jones hugged him closer. “Tell me what you are, pet.”

“I’m a slave.” The words were still shaky.

“Say it again.”

“I-I’m a slave.”

“And again.”

“I’m a slave.”

“That’s my good boy. Tell me what you are.”

A choked sob. “I’m a slave.” Neal’s grip around Jones’ chest tightened, the slave’s tear speckled face burying into his neck.

“Again.”

“I’m a slave.”

“What are you?”

“A slave. I’m a slave. I’m a slave. Oh God, I’m a slave.” Another sob wracked his thin frame. “I’m a slave, I’m a slave, I’maslave!”

Jones rubbed his back. “Shhh, it’s okay. You’re a slave, and I’m your trainer, and that means I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to take care of you, Neal. All you have to do is come here and be a good slave, and I’m going to take care of everything else. You can let go of all the pain and all the fear and all the anger, because you’re my slave, and I’m going to take care of it all, okay? Just focus on pleasing me, and I’m going to take care of everything else. Do you understand me, Neal?”

“Yes,” he moaned, his sobs now tinged with relief. “Yes. Thank you, Trainer. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Jones gave him a soft kiss on the back of the neck. “You’re welcome, pet. You’re welcome.”


End file.
